ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 


'And  they  call  that  thing  a  petticoat !'  "—Page  233 


ROAST   BEEF 
MEDIUM 

THE  BUSINESS   ADVENTURES 
OF  EMMA   McCHESNEY 

BY 

EDNA  FERBER 

AUTHOR  OF  "DAWN  O'HARA,"  "BUTTERED 


WITH  TWENTY-SEVEN  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,   IQI?,  BY 
FREDERICK   A.    STOKES    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  I9II,  1912,  191  J,  BY 
THB   PHILLIPS    PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


All  rights  rtttrvtd 


March,  1913 


35/1 


FOREWORD 

Roast  Beef,  Medium,  is  not  only  a  food.     It^//  j5 
is  a  philosophy. 

Seated  at  Life's  Dining  Table,  with  the 
Menu  of  Morals  before  you,  your  eye  wan- 
ders a  bit  over  the  entrees,  the  hors  d'oeuvres, 
and  the  things  a  la,  though  you  know  that  Roast 
Beef,  Medium,  is  safe,  and  sane,  and  sure.  It 
agrees  with  you.  As  you  hesitate  there  sounds 
in  your  ear  a  soft  and  insinuating  Voice. 

*  You'll  find  the  tongue  in  aspic  very  nice  to- 
day," purrs  the  Voice.  "  May  I  recommend 
the  chicken  pie,  country  style?  Perhaps  you'd 
relish  something  light  and  tempting.  Eggs 
Benedictine.  Very  fine.  Or  some  flaked 
crab  meat,  perhaps.  With  a  special  Russian 


sauce." 


Roast  Beef,  Medium!  How  unimaginative 
it  sounds.  How  prosaic,  and  dry!  You  cast 
the  thought  of  it  aside  with  the  contempt  that 
it  deserves,  and  you  assume  a  fine  air  of  the 
epicure  as  you  order.  There  are  set  before  you 
things  encased  in  pastry;  things  in  frilly  paper 
trousers;  things  that  prick  the  tongue;  sauces 

w 


FOREWORD 

that  pique  the  palate.  There  are  strange  vege- 
table garnishings,  cunningly  cut.  This  is  not 
only  Food.  These  are  Viands. 

"  Everything  satisfactory?"  inquires  the  in- 
sinuating Voice. 

"  Yes,"  you  say,  and  take  a  hasty  sip  of 
water.  That  paprika  has  burned  your  tongue. 
"  Yes.  Check,  please." 

You  eye  the  score,  appalled.  "  Look  here ! 
Aren't  you  over-charging!  " 

"  Our  regular  price,"  and  you  catch  a  sneer 
beneath  the  smugness  of  the  Voice.  "  It  is  what 
every  one  pays,  sir." 

You  reach  deep,  deep  into  your  pocket,  and 
you  pay.  And  you  rise  and  go,  full  but  not  fed. 
And  later  as  you  take  your  fifth  Moral  Pepsin 
Tablet  you  say  Fool !  and  Fool !  and  Fool ! 

When  next  we  dine  we  are  not  tempted  by  the 
Voice.  We  are  wary  of  weird  sauces.  We 
shun  the  cunning  aspics.  We  look  about  at  our 
neighbor's  table.  He  is  eating  of  things 
French,  and  Russian  and  Hungarian.  Of  food 
garnished,  and  garish  and  greasy.  And  with  a 
little  sigh  of  content  and  resignation  we  settle 
down  to  our  Roast  Beef,  Medium. 

E.  F. 
[vi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM i 

II.  REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK     ....     28 

III.  CHICKENS 50 

IV.  His  MOTHER'S  SON 78 

V.  PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS     .     .     .107 

VI.  SIMPLY  SKIRTS 137 

VII.  UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST   .     .166 
VIII.  CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS  .      .     .   196 

IX.  KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 230 

X.  IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT   .      .      .  263, 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"'And  they  call  that  thing  a  petticoat!'"     .     Frontispiece 

PAGE 
"'Peter   Piper  picked   a  peck  of  pickled  peppers/   he 

announced,     glibly" 5 

"  That  was   a  married  kiss — a   two-year-old   married 

kiss  at  least'" 15 

"  'I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive  a  hound  like  me' "  .  .  25 
"  'You'll  never  grow  up,  Emma  McChesney'  "...  57 
"  'Well,  s'long  then,  Shrimp.  See  you  at  eight' "  .  .  63 

"Tm    still    in    a    position    to    enforce    that    ordinance 

against     pouting ' "         69 

"  'Son !'  echoed  the  clerk,  staring" 81 

"  'Well !'     gulped     Jock,     'those     two     double-bedded, 

bloomin',   blasted    Bisons — ' " 91 

"  'Come  on  out  of  here  and  I'll  lick  the  shine  off  your 

shoes,  you  blue-eyed  babe,  you !'" 103 

""You   can't  treat  me   with  your  life's   history.     I'm 

going   in'" 115 

"  'Now,  Lillian  Russell  and  cold  cream  is  one ;  and  new 

potatoes  and  brown  crocks  is  another' "...   127 

"  Why,  girls,  I  couldn't  hold  down  a  job  in  a  candy 

factory' " 133 

"'Honestly,  I'd  wear  it  myself !'" 151 

"  'I've  lived  petticoats,  I've  talked  petticoats,  I've 
dreamed  petticoats — why,  I've  even  worn  the 
darn  things !'" 157 

"And  found  himself  addressing  the  backs  of  the  letters 

on  the  door  marked  'Private' " 163 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

""'Shut  up,  you  blamed  fool!     Can't  you  see  the  lady's 

sick?1'" 169 

"At  his  gaze  that  lady  fled,  sample-case  banging  at 

her  knees" 185 

"In  the  exuberance  of  his  young  strength,  he  picked 

her  up" 191 

"She  read  it  again,  dully,  as  though  every  selfish  word 
had  not  already  stamped  itself  on  her  brain  and 
heart"  ,  , ^  ..  ,  .  .  205 

"  'Not  that  you   look  ycrur   age — not  by   ten   years !'  " 

.     .     .     .     .'•-    .     .     .     .     .     .        Facing    page  218 

"'Christmas  isn't  a  season     .     .     .     it's  a  feeling;  and, 

thank   God,   I've   got   it !'" 227 

""  'No  man  will  ever  appreciate  the  fine  points  of  this 

little  garment,  but  the  women — ' "    Facing  page  250 

"  'Emma    McChesney    ...     I    believe   in   you   now ! 

Dad  and  I  both  believe  in  you' " 259 

"It  had  been  a  whirlwind  da/'     .......  265 

"'Emma,'  he  said,  'will  you  marry  me?'"     ....  285 

""  'Welcome  home !'  she  cried.     'Sketch  in  the  furniture 

to  suit  yourself "     .     .     .     .     .     Facing  page  288 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 


is  a  journey  compared  to  which 
the  travels  of  Bunyan's  hero  were  a  sum- 
mer-evening's stroll.  The  Pilgrims  by  whom 
this  forced  march  is  taken  belong  to  a  maligned 
fraternity,  and  are  known  as  traveling  men. 
Sample-case  in  hand,  trunk  key  in  pocket,  cigar 
in  mouth,  brown  derby  atilt  at  an  angle  of 
ninety,  each  young  and  untried  traveler  starts 
on  his  journey  down  that  road  which  leads 
through  morasses  of  chicken  a  la  Creole,  over 
greasy  mountains  of  queen  fritters  made  doubly 
perilous  by  slippery  glaciers  of  rum  sauce,  into 
formidable  jungles  of  breaded  veal  chops 
threaded  by  sanguine  and  deadly  streams  of 
tomato  gravy,  past  sluggish  mires  of  dreadful 
things  en  casserole,  over  hills  of  corned-beef 
hash,  across  shaking  quagmires  of  veal  glace, 
plunging  into  sloughs  of  slaw,  until,  haggard> 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

weary,  digestion  shattered,  complexion  gone, 
he  reaches  the  safe  haven  of  roast  beef,  me- 
dium. Once  there,  he  never  again  strays,  al- 
though the  pompadoured,  white-aproned  siren 
sing-songs  in  his  ear  the  praises  of  Irish  stew, 
and  pork  with  apple  sauce. 

Emma  McChesney  was  eating  her  solitary 
supper  at  the  Berger  house  at  Three  Rivers, 
Michigan.  She  had  arrived  at  the  Roast  Beef 
haven  many  years  before.  She  knew  the  di- 
gestive perils  of  a  small  town  hotel  dining- 
room  as  a  guide  on  the  snow-covered  mountain 
knows  each  treacherous  pitfall  and  chasm. 
Ten  years  on  the  road  had  taught  her  to  rec- 
ognize the  deadly  snare  that  lurks  in  the  seem- 
ingly calm  bosom  of  minced  chicken  with  cream 
sauce.  Not  for  her  the  impenetrable  myste- 
ries of  a  hamburger  and  onions.  It  had  been  a 
struggle,  brief  but  terrible,  from  which  Emma 
McChesney  had  emerged  triumphant,  her  com- 
plexion and  figure  saved. 

No  more  metaphor.  On  with  the  story, 
which  left  Emma  at  her  safe  and  solitary  sup- 
per. 

She  had  the  last  number  of  the  Dry  Goods 
Review  propped  up  against  the  vinegar  cruet, 

[2] 


ROAST  BE^F,  MEDIUM 

and  the  Worcestershire,  and  the  salt  shaker. 
Between  conscientious,  but  disinterested  mouth- 
fuls  of  medium  roast  beef,  she  was  reading 
the  snappy  ad  set  forth  by  her  firm's  bitterest 
competitors,  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt  Com- 
pany. It  was  a  good  reading  ad.  Emma 
McChesney,  who  had  forgotten  more  about 
petticoats  than  the  average  skirt  salesman  ever 
knew,  presently  allowed  her  luke-warm  beef 
to  grow  cold  and  flabby  as  she  read.  Some- 
where in  her  subconscious  mind  she  realized 
that  the  lanky  head  waitress  had  placed  some 
one  opposite  her  at  the  table.  Also,  subcon- 
sciously, she  heard  him  order  liver  and  bacon, 
with  onions.  She  told  herself  that  as  soon  as 
she  reached  the  bottom  of  the  column  she'd 
look  up  to  see  who  the  fool  was.  She  never 
arrived  at  the  column's  end. 

"  I  just  hate  to  tear  you  away  from  that  love 
lyric;  but  if  I  might  trouble  you  for  the  vin- 
egar— " 

Emma  groped  for  it  back  of  her  paper  and 
shoved  it  across  the  table  without  looking  up. 

" — and  the  Worcester — " 

One  eye  on  the  absorbing  column,  she  passed 
the  tall  bottle.  But  at  its  removal  her  prop 

[3] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

was  gone.  The  Dry  Goods  Review  was  too 
weighty  for  the  salt  shaker  alone. 

" —  and  the  salt.  Thanks.  Warm,  isn't 
it?" 

There  was  a  double  vertical  frown  between 
Emma  McChesney's  eyes  as  she  glanced  up 
over  the  top  of  her  Dry  Goods  Review.  The 
frown  gave  way  to  a  half  smile.  The  glance 
settled  into  a  stare. 

"  But  then,  anybody  would  have  stared.  He 
expected  it,"  she  said,  afterwards,  in  telling 
about  it.  "  IVe  seen  matinee  idols,  and  tailors' 
supplies  salesmen,  and  Julian  Eltinge,  but  this 
boy  had  any  male  professional  beauty  I  ever 
saw,  looking  as  handsome  and  dashing  as  a 
bowl  of  cold  oatmeal.  And  he  knew  it." 

Now,  in  the  ten  years  that  she  had  been  out 
representing  T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom  Petti- 
coats, Emma  McChesney  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  make  a  rule  or  two  for  herself.  In  the 
strict  observance  of  one  of  these  she  had  be- 
come past  mistress  in  the  fine  art  of  congealing 
the  warm  advances  of  fresh  and  friendly  sales- 
men of  the  opposite  sex.  But  this  case  was  dif- 
ferent, she  told  herself.  The  man  across  the 
table  was  little  more  than  a  boy  —  an  amaz- 

[4] 


f 


'So 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

ingly  handsome,  astonishingly  impudent,  cock- 
ily  confident  boy,  who  was  staring  with  inso- 
lent approval  at  Emma  McChesney's  trim, 
shirt-waisted  figure,  and  her  fresh,  attractive 
coloring,  and  her  well-cared-for  hair  beneath 
the  smart  summer  hat. 

"  It  isn't  in  human  nature  to  be  as  good-look- 
ing as  you  are,"  spake  Emma  McChesney,  sud- 
denly, being  a  person  who  never  trifled  with 
half-way  measures.  "  I'll  bet  you  have  bad 
teeth,  or  an  impediment  in  your  speech." 

The  gorgeous  young  man  smiled.  His 
teeth  were  perfect.  "  Peter  Piper  picked  a 
peck  of  pickled  peppers,"  he  announced,  glibly. 
"Nothing  missing  there,  is  there?" 

"  Must  be  your  morals  then,"  retorted  Emma 
McChesney.  "  My!  My!  And  on  the  road! 
Why,  the  trail  of  bleeding  hearts  that  you  must 
leave  all  the  way  from  Maine  to  California 
would  probably  make  the  Red  Sea  turn  white 
with  envy." 

The  Fresh  Young  Kid  speared  a  piece  of 
liver  and  looked  soulfully  up  into  the  adoring 
eyes  of  the  waitress  who  was  hovering  over  him. 

"  Got  any  nice  hot  biscuits  to-night,  girlie?  " 
he  inquired. 

[7] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

"I'll  get  you  some;  sure,"  wildly  promised 
his  handmaiden,  and  disappeared  kitchenward. 

"  Brand  new  to  the  road,  aren't  you?"  ob- 
served Emma  McChesney,  cruelly. 

"  What  makes  you  think  - 

"  Liver  and  bacon,  hot  biscuits,  Worcester- 
shire," elucidated  she.  "  No  old-timer  would 
commit  suicide  that  way.  After  you've  been 
out  for  two  or  three  years  you'll  stick  to  the 
Rock  of  Gibraltar  —  roast  beef,  medium.  Oh, 
I  get  wild  now  and  then,  and  order  eggs  if  the 
girl  says  she  knows  the  hen  that  layed  'em,  but 
plain  roast  beef,  unchloroformed,  is  the  one  best 
bet.  You  can't  go  wrong  if  you  stick  to  it." 

The  god-like  young  man  leaned  forward, 
forgetting  to  eat. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you're  on  the 
road!" 

"  Why  not?  "  demanded  Emma  McChesney, 
briskly. 

"  Oh,  fie,  fie !  "  said  the  handsome  youth, 
throwing  her  a  languishing  look.  "  Any 
woman  as  pretty  as  you  are,  and  with  those 
eyes,  and  that  hair,  and  figure  —  Say,  Little 
One,  what  are  you  going  to  do  to-night?  " 

Emma    McChesney    sugared    her    tea,    and 
[8] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

stirred  it,  slowly.  Then  she  looked  up.  "  To- 
night, you  fresh  young  kid,  you  1  "  she  said 
calmly,  "  I'm  going  to  dictate  two  letters, 
explaining  why  business  was  rotten  last  week, 
and  why  it's  going  to  pick  up  next  week,  and 
then  I'm  going  to  keep  an  engagement  with  a 
nine-hour  beauty  sleep." 

"  Don't  get  sore  at  a  fellow.  You'd  take 
pity  on  me  if  you  knew  how  I  have  to  work 
to  kill  an  evening  in  one  of  these  little  town- 
pump  burgs.  Kill  'em!  It  can't  be  done. 
They  die  harder  than  the  heroine  in  a  ten, 
twenty,  thirty.  From  supper  to  bedtime  is 
twice  as  long  as  from  breakfast  to  supper. 
Honest!" 

But  Emma  McChesney  looked  inexorable, 
as  women  do  just  before  they  relent.  Said  she : 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  By  the  time  I  get  through 
trying  to  convince  a  bunch  of  customers  that 
T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom  Petticoat  has  every 
other  skirt  in  the  market  looking  like  a  piece  of 
Fourth  of  July  bunting  that's  been  left  out  in 
the  rain,  I'm  about  ready  to  turn  down  the 
spread  and  leave  a  call  for  six-thirty." 

"  Be  a  good  fellow,"  pleaded  the  unquench- 
able one.  "  Let's  take  in  all  the  nickel  shows, 

[9] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

and  then  see  if  we  can't  drown  our  sorrows  in 
—  er— " 

Emma  McChesney  slipped  a  coin  under  her 
plate,  crumpled  her  napkin,  folded  her  arms 
on  the  table,  and  regarded  the  boy  across  the 
way  with  what  our  best  talent  calls  a  long, 
level  look.  It  was  so  long  and  so  level  that 
even  the  airiness  of  the  buoyant  youngster  at 
whom  it  was  directed  began  to  lessen  percepti- 
bly, long  before  Emma  began  to  talk. 

"  Tell  me,  young  'un,  did  any  one  ever  re- 
fuse you  anything?  I  thought  not.  I  should 
think  that  when  you  realize  what  you've  got  to 
learn  it  would  scare  you  to  look  ahead.  I  don't 
expect  you  to  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  I  never 
talk  to  fresh  guys  like  you,  but  it's  true.  I 
don't  know  why  I'm  breaking  my  rule  for  you, 
unless  it's  because  you're  so  unbelievably  good- 
looking  that  I'm  anxious  to  know  where  the 
blemish  is.  The  Lord  don't  make  'em  perfect, 
you  know.  I'm  going  to  get  out  those  letters, 
and  then,  if  it's  just  the  same  to  you,  we'll  take 
a  walk.  These  nickel  shows  are  getting  on 
my  nerves.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  have  to 
look  at  one  more  Western  picture  about  a  fool 
girl  with  her  hair  in  a  braid  riding  a  show  horse 

[10] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

in  the  wilds  of  Clapham  Junction  and  being  res- 
cued from  a  band  of  almost-Indians  by  the  hand- 
some, but  despised  Eastern  tenderfoot,  or  if  I 
see  one  more  of  those  historical  pictures,  with 
the  women  wearing  costumes  that  are  a  pass 
between  early  Egyptian  and  late  State  Street,  I 
know  I'll  get  hysterics  and  have  to  be  carried 
shrieking,  up  the  aisle.  Let's  walk  down  Main 
Street  and  look  in  the  store  windows,  and  up 
as  far  as  the  park  and  back." 

"  Great!  "  assented  he.  "  Is  there  a  park?  " 
"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Emma  McChesney, 
"  but  there  is.  And  for  your  own  good  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  a  few  things.  There's  more 
to  this  traveling  game  than  just  knocking  down 
on  expenses,  talking  to  every  pretty  woman  you 
meet,  and  learning  to  ask  for  fresh  white-bread 
heels  at  the  Palmer  House  in  Chicago.  I'll 
meet  you  in  the  lobby  at  eight." 

Emma  McChesney  talked  steadily,  and 
evenly,  and  generously,  from  eight  until  eight- 
thirty.  She  talked  from  the  great  storehouse 
of  practical  knowledge  which  she  had  accumu- 
lated in  her  ten  years  on  the  road.  She  told 
the  handsome  young  cub  many  things  for  which 
he  should  have  been  undyingly  thankful.  But 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

when  they  reached  the  park  —  the  cool,  dim, 
moon-silvered  park,  its  benches  dotted  with 
glimpses  of  white  showing  close  beside  a  blur 
of  black,  Emma  McChesney  stopped  talking. 
Not  only  did  she  stop  talking,  but  she  ceased  to 
think  of  the  boy  seated  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

In  the  band-stand,  under  the  arc-light,  in  the 
center  of  the  pretty  little  square,  some  neighbor- 
hood children  were  playing  a  noisy  game,  with 
many  shrill  cries,  and  much  shouting  and  laugh- 
ter. Suddenly,  from  one  of  the  houses  across 
the  way,  a  woman's  voice  was  heard,  even  above 
the  clamor  of  the  children. 

"  Fred-dee !  "  called  the  voice.  "  Maybelle ! 
Come,  now." 

And  a  boy's  voice  answered,  as  boys'  voices 
'have  since  Cain  was  a  child  playing  in  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden,  and  as  boys'  voices  will  as  long 
as  boys  are: 

"  Aw,  ma,  I  ain't  a  bit  sleepy.  We  just  be- 
gun a  new  game,  an'  I'm  leader.  Can't  we 
just  stay  out  a  couple  of  minutes  more?  " 

'  Well,    five    minutes,"    agreed    the    voice. 
"  But  don't  let  me  call  you  again." 

Emma  McChesney  leaned  back  on  the  rustic 
bench  and  clasped  her  strong,  white  hands  be- 

[12] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

hind  her  head,  and  stared  straight  ahead  into 
the  soft  darkness.  And  if  it  had  been  light  you 
could  have  seen  that  the  bitter  lines  showing 
faintly  about  her  mouth  were  outweighed  by  the 
sweet  and  gracious  light  which  was  glowing  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Fred-dee !  "  came  the  voice  of  command 
again.  "May-belle!  This  minute,  now!" 

One  by  one  the  flying  little  figures  under  the 
arc-light  melted  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
commanding  voice  and  home  and  bed.  And 
Emma  McChesney  forgot  all  about  fresh  young 
kids  and  featherloom  petticoats  and  discounts 
and  bills  of  lading  and  sample-cases  and 
grouchy  buyers.  After  all,  it  had  been  her 
protecting  maternal  instinct  which  had  been 
aroused  by  the  boy  at  supper,  although  she  had 
not  known  it  then.  She  did  not  know  it  now, 
for  that  matter.  She  was  busy  remembering 
just  such  evenings  in  her  own  life  —  summer 
evenings,  filled  with  the  high,  shrill  laughter  of 
children  at  play.  She  too,  had  stood  in  the 
doorway,  making  a  funnel  of  her  hands,  so 
that  her  clear  call  through  the  twilight  might 
be  heard  above  the  cries  of  the  boys  and  girls. 
She  had  known  how  loath  the  little  feet  had 

[13] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

been  to  leave  their  play,  and  how  they  had 
lagged  up  the  porch  stairs,  and  into  the  house. 
Years,  whose  memory  she  had  tried  to  keep 
behind  her,  now  suddenly  loomed  before  her  in 
the  dim  quiet  of  the  little  flower-scented  park. 

A  voice  broke  the  silence,  and  sent  her 
dream-thoughts  scattering  to  the  winds. 

"  Honestly,  kid,"  said  the  voice,  "  I  could 
be  crazy  about  you,  if  you'd  let  me." 

The  forgotten  figure  beside  her  woke  into 
sudden  life.  A  strong  arm  encircled  her  shoul- 
ders. A  strong  hand  seized  her  own,  which 
were  clasped  behind  her  head.  Two  warm, 
eager  lips  were  pressed  upon  her  lips,  checking 
the  little  cry  of  surprise  and  wrath  that  rose  in 
her  throat. 

Emma  McChesney  wrenched  herself  free 
with  a  violent  jerk,  and  pushed  him  from  her. 
She  did  not  storm.  She  did  not  even  rise. 
She  sat  very  quietly,  breathing  fast.  When 
she  turned  at  last  to  look  at  the  boy  beside  her 
it  seemed  that  her  white  profile  cut  the  dark- 
ness. The  man  shrank  a  little,  and  would 
have  stammered  something,  but  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney checked  him. 

1  You     nasty,     good-for-nothing,     handsome 

[14] 


'That    was    a    married    kiss — a    two-year-old    married    kiss    at 
least'"— Page  17 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

young  devil,  you !  "  she  said.  "  So  you're 
married." 

He  sat  up  with  a  jerk.  "  How  did  you  — 
what  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  That  was  a  married  kiss  —  a  two-year-old 
married  kiss,  at  least.  No  boy  would  get  as 
excited  as  that  about  kissing  an  old  stager 
like  me.  The  chances  are  you're  out  of  prac- 
tise. I  knew  that  if  it  wasn't  teeth  or  impedi- 
ment it  must  be  morals.  And  it  is." 

She  moved  over  on  the  bench  until  she  was 
close  beside  him.  "  Now,  listen  to  me,  boy." 
She  leaned  forward,  impressively.  "  Are  you 
listening?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  handsome  young  devil, 
sullenly. 

"  What  I've  got  to  say  to  you  isn't  so  much 
for  your  sake,  as  for  your  wife's.  I  was  mar- 
ried when  I  was  eighteen,  and  stayed  married 
eight  years.  I've  had  my  divorce  ten  years, 
and  my  boy  is  seventeen  years  old.  Figure  it 
out.  How  old  is  Ann?  " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  he  flashed  back. 
"  You're  not  a  day  over  twenty-six  —  anyway, 
you  don't  look  it.  I  — " 

41  Thanks,"    drawled    Emma.     "  That's   be- 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

cause  youVe  never  seen  me  in  negligee.  A 
woman's  as  old  as  she  looks  with  her  hair 
on  the  dresser  and  bed  only  a  few  minutes 
away.  Do  you  know  why  I  was  decent  to  you 
in  the  first  place?  Because  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  think  that  you  reminded  me  of  my  own  kid. 
Every  fond  mama  is  gump  enough  to  think 
that  every  Greek  god  she  sees  looks  like  her 
own  boy,  even  if  her  own  happens  to  squint  and 
have  two  teeth  missing  —  which  mine  hasn't, 
thank  the  Lord !  He's  the  greatest  young  — 
Well,  now,  look  here,  young  'un.  I'm  going  to 
return  good  for  evil.  Traveling  men  and 
geniuses  should  never  marry.  But  as  long  as 
you've  done  it,  you  might  as  well  start  right. 
If  you  move  from  this  spot  till  I  get  through 
with  you,  I'll  yell  police  and  murder.  Are  you 
ready?" 

"  I'm  dead  sorry,  on  the  square,  I  am  — '* 
*  Ten  minutes  late,"  interrupted  Emma  Me- 
Chesney.     "  I'm  dishing  up  a  sermon,  hot,  for 
one,  and  you've  got  to  choke  it  down.     When- 
ever I  hear  a  traveling  man  howling  about  his 
lonesome  evenings,  and  what  a  dog's  life  it  is, 
and  no  way  for  a  man  to  live,  I  always  wonder 
what  kind  of  a  summer  picnic  he  thinks  it  is 
[18] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

for  his  wife.  She's  really  a  widow  seven 
months  in  the  year,  without  any  of  a  widow's 
privileges.  Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  what 
she's  doing  evenings?  No,  you  didn't.  Well, 
I'll  tell  you.  She's  sitting  home,  night  after 
night,  probably  embroidering  monograms  on 
your  shirt  sleeves  by  way  of  diversion.  And  on 
Saturday  night,  which  is  the  night  when  every 
married  woman  has  the  inalienable  right  to  be 
taken  out  by  her  husband,  she  can  listen  to  the 
woman  in  the  flat  upstairs  getting  ready  to  go 
to  the  theater.  The  fact  that  there's  a  ceiling 
between  'em  doesn't  prevent  her  from  knowing 
just  where  they're  going,  and  why  he  has 
worked  himself  into  a  rage  over  his  white  lawn 
tie,  and  whether  they're  taking  a  taxi  or  the  car 
and  who  they're  going  to  meet  afterward  at 
supper.  Just  by  listening  to  them  coming 
downstairs  she  can  tell  how  much  Mrs.  Third 
Flat's  silk  stockings  cost,  and  if  she's  wearing 
her  new  La  Valliere  or  not.  Women  have  that 
instinct,  you  know.  Or  maybe  you  don't. 
There's  so  much  you've  missed." 

"  Say,  look  here  — "  broke  from  the  man  be- 
side her.  But  Emma  McChesney  laid  her  cool 
fingers  on  his  lips. 

[19] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

"  Nothing  from  the  side-lines,  please,"  she 
said.  "  After  they've  gone  she  can  go  to  bed, 
or  she  can  sit  up,  pretending  to  read,  but  really 
wondering  if  that  squeaky  sound  coming  from 
the  direction  of  the  kitchen  is  a  loose  screw  in 
the  storm  door,  or  if  it's  some  one  trying  to 
break  into  the  flat.  And  she'd  rather  sit  there, 
scared  green,  than  go  back  through  that  long 
hall  to  find  out.  And  when  Tillie  comes  home 
with  her  young  man  at  eleven  o'clock,  though 
she  promised  not  to  stay  out  later  than  ten,  she 
rushes  back  to  the  kitchen  and  falls  on  her  neck, 
she's  so  happy  to  see  her.  Oh,  it's  a  gay  life. 
You  talk  about  the  heroism  of  the  early  Pil- 
grim mothers!  I'd  like  to  know  what  they  had 
on  the  average  traveling  man's  wife." 

"  Bess  goes  to  the  matinee  every  Saturday," 
he  began,  in  feeble  defense. 

"Matinee!"  scoffed  Emma  McChesney. 
"  Do  you  think  any  woman  goes  to  matinee  by 
preference?  Nobody  goes  but  girls  of  six- 
teen, and  confirmed  old  maids  without  brothers, 
and  traveling  men's  wives.  Matinee !  Say, 
would  you  ever  hesitate  to  choose  between  an 
all-day  train  and  a  sleeper?  It's  the  same  idea. 

[20] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

What  a  woman  calls  going  to  the  theater  is 
something  very  different.  It  means  taking  a 
nap  in  the  afternoon,  so  her  eyes  will  be  bright 
at  night,  and  then  starting  at  about  five  o'clock 
to  dress,  and  lay  her  husband's  clean  things  out 
on  the  bed.  She  loves  it.  She  even  enjoys 
getting  his  bath  towels  ready,  and  putting  his 
shaving  things  where  he  can  lay  his  hands  on 
'em,  and  telling  the  girl  to  have  dinner  ready 
promptly  at  six-thirty.  It  means  getting  out 
her  good  dress  that  hangs  in  the  closet  with  a 
cretonne  bag  covering  it,  and  her  black  satin 
coat,  and  her  hat  with  the  paradise  aigrettes 
that  she  bought  with  what  she  saved  out  of  the 
housekeeping  money.  It  means  her  best  silk 
stockings,  and  her  diamond  sunburst  that  he's 
going  to  have  made  over  into  a  La  Valliere  just 
as  soon  as  business  is  better.  She  loves  it  all, 
and  her  cheeks  get  pinker  and  pinker,  so  that 
she  really  doesn't  need  the  little  dash  of  rouge 
that  she  puts  on  *  because  everybody  does  it, 
don't  you  know?  '  She  gets  ready,  all  but  her 
dress,  and  then  she  puts  on  a  kimono  and  slips 
out  to  the  kitchen  to  make  the  gravy  for  the 
chicken  because  the  girl  never  can  get  it  as 

[21] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

smooth  as  he  likes  it.  That's  part  of  what  she 
calls  going  to  the  theater,  and  having  a  hus- 
band. And  if  there  are  children — " 

There  came  a  little,  inarticulate  sound  from 
the  boy.  But  Emma's  quick  ear  caught  it. 

"No?  Well,  then,  we'll  call  that  one 
black  mark  less  for  you.  But  if  there  are  chil- 
dren —  and  for  her  sake  I  hope  there  will  be  — 
she's  father  and  mother  to  them.  She  brings 
them  up,  single-handed,  while  he's  on  the  road. 
And  the  worst  she  can  do  is  to  say  to  them, 
*  Just  wait  until  your  father  gets  home.  He'll 
hear  of  this/  But  shucks!  When  he  comes 
home  he  can't  whip  the  kids  for  what  they  did 
seven  weeks  before,  and  that  they've  forgotten 
all  about,  and  for  what  he  never  saw,  and  can't 
imagine.  Besides,  he  wants  his  comfort  when 
he  gets  home.  He  says  he  wants  a  little  rest 
and  peace,  and  he's  darned  if  he's  going  to  run 
around  evenings.  Not  much,  he  isn't!  But  he 
doesn't  object  to  her  making  a  special  effort  to 
cook  all  those  little  things  that  he's  been  long- 
ing for  on  the  road.  Oh,  there'll  be  a  seat  in 
Heaven  for  every  traveling  man's  wife  — 
though  at  that,  I'll  bet  most  of  'em  will  find 
themselves  stuck  behind  a  post." 

[22] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

"You're  all  right!"  exclaimed  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney's  listener,  suddenly.  "  How  a  woman 
like  you  can  waste  her  time  on  the  road  is 
more  than  I  can  see.  And  —  I  want  to  thank 
you.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  — " 

"  I  haven't  let  you  finish  a  sentence  so  far, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  yet.  Wait  a  minute. 
There's  one  more  paragraph  to  this  sermon. 
You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  old 
stagers,  and  the  roast  beef  diet?  Well,  that 
applies  right  through  life.  It's  all  very  well 
to  trifle  with  the  little  side-dishes  at  first,  but 
there  comes  a  time  when  you've  got  to  quit 
fooling  with  the  minced  chicken,  and  the  imi- 
tation lamb  chops  of  this  world,  and  settle 
down  to  plain,  everyday,  roast  beef,  medium. 
That  other  stuff  may  tickle  your  palate  for  a 
while,  but  sooner  or  later  it  will  turn  on  you, 
and  ruin  your  moral  digestion.  You  stick  to 
roast  beef,  medium.  It  may  sound  prosaic, 
and  unimaginative  and  dry,  but  you'll  find  that 
it  wears  in  the  long  run.  You  can  take  me 
over  to  the  hotel  now.  I've  lost  an  hour's 
sleep,  but  I  don't  consider  it  wasted.  And 
you'll  oblige  me  by  putting  the  stopper  on  any 
conversation  that  may  occur  to  you  between 

[23] 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

here  and  the  hotel.  I've  talked  until  I'm  so 
low  on  words  that  I'll  probably  have  to  sell 
featherlooms  in  sign  language  to-morrow." 

They  walked  to  the  very  doors  of  the  Berger 
House  in  silence.  But  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
that  led  to  the  parlor  floor  he  stopped,  and 
looked  into  Emma  McChesney's  face.  His 
own  was  rather  white  and  tense. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  thank 
you.  That  sounds  idiotic,  but  I  guess  you  know 
what  I  mean.  And  I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive 
a  hound  like  me.  I  haven't  been  so  ashamed 
of  myself  since  I  was  a  kid.  Why,  if  you 
knew  Bess  —  if  you  knew — " 

"  I  guess  I  know  Bess,  all  right.  I  used  to 
be  a  Bess,  myself.  Just  because  I'm  a  travel- 
ing man  it  doesn't  follow  that  I've  forgotten 
the  Bess  feeling.  As  far  as  that  goes,  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  I've  got  neuralgia  from 
sitting  in  that  park  with  my  feet  in  the  damp 
grass.  I  can  feel  it  in  my  back  teeth,  and  by 
eleven  o'clock  it  will  be  camping  over  my  left 
eye,  with  its  little  brothers  doing  a  war  dance 
up  the  side  of  my  face.  And,  boy,  I'd  give 
last  week's  commissions  if  there  was  some  one 
to  whom  I  had  the  right  to  say:  '  Henry,  will 

[24] 


**  'I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive  a  hound  like  me' " — Page 


ROAST  BEEF,  MEDIUM 

you  get  up  and  get  me  a  hot-water  bag  for  my 
neuralgia?  It's  something  awful.  And  just 
open  the  left-hand  lower  drawer  of  the  chif- 
fonier and  get  out  one  of  those  gauze  vests 
and  then  get  me  a  safety  pin  from  the  tray  on 
my  dresser.  I'm  going  to  pin  it  around  my 
head.'  " 


[27] 


II 

REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 


McCHESNEY,  MRS.  (I  placo 
it  in  the  background  because  she  generally 
did)  swung  off  the  2:15,  crossed  the  depot  plat- 
form, and  dived  into  the  hotel  'bus.  She  had  to 
climb  over  the  feet  of  a  fat  man  in  brown  and  a 
lean  man  in  black,  to  do  it.  Long  practise  had 
made  her  perfect  in  the  art.  She  knew  that  the 
fat  man  and  the  thin  man  were  hogging  the  end 
seats  so  that  they  could  be  the  first  to  register 
and  get  a  choice  of  rooms  when  the  'bus  reached 
the  hotel.  The  vehicle  smelled  of  straw,  and 
mold,  and  stables,  and  dampness,  and  tobacco, 
as  'buses  have  from  old  Jonas  Chuzzlewit's 
time  to  this.  Nine  years  on  the  road  had  ac- 
customed Emma  McChesney's  nostrils  to  'bus 
smells.  She  gazed  stolidly  out  of  the  window, 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  remembered  that 
her  snug  suit-skirt  wasn't  built  for  that  attitude, 

[28] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

uncrossed  them  again,  and  caught  the  de- 
lighted and  understanding  eye  of  the  fat  travel- 
ing man,  who  was  a  symphony  in  brown  — 
brown  suit,  brown  oxfords,  brown  scarf,  brown 
hat,  brown-bordered  handkerchief  just  peeping 
over  the  edge  of  his  pocket.  He  looked  like  a 
colossal  chocolate  fudge. 

"  Red-faced,  grinning,  and  a  naughty  wink 
—  I'll  bet  he  sells  coffins  and  undertakers'  sup- 
plies," mused  Emma  McChesney.  "  And  the 
other  one  —  the  tall,  lank,  funereal  affair  in 
black  —  I  suppose  his  line  would  be  sheet  music,, 
or  maybe  phonographs.  Or  perhaps  he's  a 
lyceum  bureau  reader,  scheduled  to  give  an 
evening  of  humorous  readings  for  the  Young 
Men's  Sunday  Evening  Club  course  at  the  First 
M.  E.  Church." 

During  those  nine  years  on  the  road  for  the 
Featherloom  Skirt  Company  Emma  McChesney 
had  picked  up  a  side  line  or  two  on  human  na- 
ture. 

She  was  not  surprised  to  see  the  fat  man  in 
brown  and  the  thin  man  in  black  leap  out  of  the 
'bus  and  into  the  hotel  before  she  had  had  time 
to  straighten  her  hat  after  the  wheels  had 

[29] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

bumped  up  against  the  curbing.  By  the  time 
she  reached  the  desk  the  two  were  disappearing 
in  the  wake  of  a  bell-boy. 

The  sartorial  triumph  behind  the  desk,  lan- 
guidly read  her  signature  upside  down,  took  a 
disinterested  look  at  her,  and  yelled: 

"  Front !     Show  the  lady  up  to  nineteen." 

Emma  McChesney  took  three  steps  in  the 
direction  of  the  stairway  toward  which  the  boy 
was  headed  with  her  bags.  Then  she  stopped, 

"  Wait  a  minute,  boy,"  she  said,  pleasantly 
enough;  and  walked  back  to  the  desk.  She 
eyed  the  clerk,  a  half-smile  on  her  lips,  one  arm, 
in  its  neat  tailored  sleeve,  resting  on  the  marble, 
while  her  right  forefinger,  trimly  gloved,  tapped 
an  imperative  little  tattoo.  (Perhaps  you  think 
that  last  descriptive  sentence  is  as  unnecessary 
as  it  is  garbled.  But  don't  you  get  a  little 
picture  of  her  —  trim,  taut,  tailored,  man- 
nish-booted, flat-heeled,  linen-collared,  sailor- 
hatted?) 

'  You've  made  a  mistake,  haven't  you?  "  she 
inquired. 

"Mistake?"  repeated  the  clerk,  removing 
his  eyes  from  their  loving  contemplation  of  his 
right  thumb-nail.  "  Guess  not." 

[30] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

"  Oh,  think  it  over,"  drawled  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney.  "  I've  never  seen  nineteen,  but  I  can 
describe  it  with  both  eyes  shut,  and  one  hand 
tied  behind  me.  It's  an  inside  room,  isn't  it, 
over  the  kitchen,  and  just  next  to  the  water  butt 
where  the  maids  come  to  draw  water  for  the 
scrubbing  at  5  A.M.?  And  the  boiler  room 
gets  in  its  best  bumps  for  nineteen,  and  the 
patent  ventilators  work  just  next  door,  and 
there's  a  pet  rat  that  makes  his  headquarters  in 
the  wall  between  eighteen  and  nineteen,  and  the 
housekeeper  whose  room  is  across  the  hall  is 
afflicted  with  a  bronchial  cough,  nights.  I'm 
wise  to  the  brand  of  welcome  that  you  fellows 
hand  out  to  us  women  on  the  road.  This  is 
new  territory  for  me  —  my  first  trip  West 
Think  it  over.  Don't  —  er — say,  sixty-five 
strike  you  as  being  nearer  my  size?  " 

The  clerk  stared  at  Emma  McChesney,  and 
Emma  McChesney  coolly  stared  back  at  the 
clerk. 

"  Our  aim,"  began  he,  loftily,  "  is  to  make 
our  guests  as  comfortable  as  possible  on  all  oc- 
casions. But  the  last  lady  drummer  who  — " 

"  That's  all  right,"  interrupted  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney, "  but  I'm  not  the  kind  that  steals  the 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

towels,  and  I  don't  carry  an  electric  iron  with 
me,  either.  Also  I  don't  get  chummy  with  the 
housekeeper  and  the  dining-room  girls  half  an 
hour  after  I  move  in.  Most  women  drummers 
are  living  up  to  their  reputations,  but  some  of 
us  are  living  'em  down.  I'm  for  revision  down- 
ward. You  haven't  got  my  number,  that's  all." 

A  slow  gleam  of  unwilling  admiration  illu- 
mined the  clerk's  chill  eye.  He  turned  and  ex- 
tracted another  key  with  its  jangling  metal  tag, 
from  one  of  the  many  pigeonholes  behind 
him. 

"  You  win,"  he  said.  He  leaned  over  the 
desk  and  lowered  his  voice  discreetly.  "  Say, 
girlie,  go  on  into  the  cafe  and  have  a  drink  on 


me." 


"  Wrong  again,"  answered  Emma  McChes- 
ney.  "  Never  use  it.  Bad  for  the  complexion. 
Thanks  just  the  same.  Nice  little  hotel  you've 
got  here." 

In  the  corridor  leading  to  sixty-five  there 
was  a  great  litter  of  pails,  and  mops,  and 
brooms,  and  damp  rags,  and  one  heard  the 
sigh  of  a  vacuum  cleaner. 

"  Spring  house-cleaning,"  explained  the  bell- 
boy, hurdling  a  pail. 

[32] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

Emma  McChesney  picked  her  way  over  a  lit- 
tle heap  of  dust-cloths  and  a  ladder  or  so. 

"  House-cleaning,"  she  repeated  dreamily; 
"  spring  house-cleaning."  And  there  came  a 
troubled,  yearning  light  into  her  eyes.  It  lin- 
gered there  after  the  boy  had  unlocked  and 
thrown  open  the  door  of  sixty-five,  pocketed  his 
dime,  and  departed. 

Sixty-five  was  —  well,  you  know  what  sixty- 
five  generally  is  in  a  small  Middle-Western  town. 
Iron  bed — tan  wall-paper  —  pine  table  —  pine 
dresser  - — pine  chair  —  red  carpet  —  stuffy 
smell  — fly  buzzing  at  window  —  sun  beating 
in  from  the  west.  Emma  McChesney  saw  it 
all  in  one  accustomed  glance. 

"  Lordy,  I  hate  to  think  what  nineteen  must 
be,"  she  told  herself,  and  unclasped  her  bag. 
Out  came  the  first  aid  to  the  travel-stained  —  a 
jar  of  cold  cream.  It  was  followed  by  powder, 
chamois,  brush,  comb,  tooth-brush.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney dug  four  fingers  into  the  cold  cream 
jar,  slapped  the  stuff  on  her  face,  rubbed  it  in 
a  bit,  wiped  it  off  with  a  dry  towel,  straight- 
ened her  hat,  dusted  the  chamois  over  her  face, 
glanced  at  her  watch  and  hurriedly  whisked 
downstairs. 

[33] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

"  After  all,"  she  mused,  u  that  thin  guy  might 
not  be  out  for  a  music  house.  Maybe  his  line 
is  skirts,  too.  You  never  can  tell.  Anyway, 
I'll  beat  him  to  it." 

Saturday  afternoon  and  spring-time  in  a  small 
town!  Do  you  know  it?  Main  Street  —  on 
the  right  side  —  all  a-bustle;  farmers'  wagons 
drawn  up  at  the  curbing;  farmers'  wives  in  the 
inevitable  rusty  black  with  dowdy  hats  furbished 
up  with  a  red  muslin  rose  in  honor  of  spring; 
grand  opening  at  the  new  five-and-ten-cent  store, 
with  women  streaming  in  and  streaming  out 
again,  each  with  a  souvenir  pink  carnation 
pinned  to  her  coat;  every  one  carrying  bundles 
and  yellow  paper  bags  that  might  contain  ba- 
nanas or  hats  or  grass  seed;  the  thirty-two  auto- 
mobiles that  the  town  boasts  all  dashing  up  and 
down  the  street,  driven  by  hatless  youths  in 
careful  college  clothes;  a  crowd  of  at  least 
eleven  waiting  at  Jenson's  drug-store  corner  for 
the  next  interurban  car. 

Emma  McChesney  found  herself  strolling 
when  she  should  have  been  hustling  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Novelty  Cloak  and  Suit  Store.  She 
was  aware  of  a  vague,  strangely  restless  feeling 

[34] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

in  the  region  of  her  heart  —  or  was  it  her  liver? 
—  or  her  lungs? 

Reluctantly  she  turned  in  at  the  entrance  of 
the  Novelty  Cloak  and  Suit  Store  and  asked 
for  the  buyer.  (Here  we  might  introduce  one 
of  those  side-splitting  little  business  deal  scenes. 
But  there  can  be  paid  no  finer  compliment  to 
Emma  McChesney's  saleswomanship  than  to 
state  that  she  landed  her  man  on  a  busy  Satur- 
day afternoon,  with  a  store  full  of  customers 
and  the  head  woman  clerk  dead  against  her 
from  the  start.) 

As  she  was  leaving: 

"  Generally  it's  the  other  way  around," 
smiled  the  boss,  regarding  Emma's  trim  come- 
liness, "  but  seeing  you're  a  lady,  why,  it'll  be 
on  me."  He  reached  for  his  hat.  "  Let's  go 
and  have  —  ah  —  a  little  something." 

"  Not  any,  thanks,"  Emma  McChesney  re- 
plied, a  little  wearily. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  hotel  she  frankly 
loitered.  Just  to  look  at  her  made  you  certain 
that  she  was  not  of  our  town.  Now,  that 
doesn't  imply  that  the  women  of  our  town  do 
not  dress  well,  because  they  do.  But  there  was 

[35] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

something  about  her  —  a  flirt  of  chiffon  at  the 
throat,  or  her  hat  quill  stuck  in  a  certain  way,  or 
the  stitching  on  her  gloves,  or  the  vamp  of  her 
shoe  —  that  was  of  a  style  which  had  not 
reached  us  yet. 

As  Emma  McChesney  loitered,  looking  in  at 
the  shop  windows  and  watching  the  women  hur- 
rying by,  intent  on  the  purchase  of  their  Sunday 
dinners,  that  vaguely  restless  feeling  seized  her 
again.  There  were  rows  of  plump  fowls  in  the 
butcher-shop  windows,  and  juicy  roasts.  The 
cunning  hand  of  the  butcher  had  enhanced  the 
redness  of  the  meat  by  trimmings  of  curly  pars- 
ley. Salad  things  and  new  vegetables  glowed 
behind  the  grocers'  plate-glass.  There  were 
the  tender  green  of  lettuces,  the  coral  of  to- 
matoes, the  brown-green  of  stout  asparagus 
stalks,  bins  of  spring  peas  and  beans,  and  car- 
rots, and  bunches  of  greens  for  soup.  There 
came  over  the  businesslike  soul  of  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney a  wild  longing  to  go  in  and  select  a 
ten-pound  roast,  taking  care  that  there  should 
be  just  the  right  proportion  of  creamy  fat  and 
red  meat.  She  wanted  to  go  in  and  poke  her 
fingers  in  the  ribs  of  a  broiler.  She  wanted  to 
order  wildly  of  sweet  potatoes  and  vegetables, 

[36] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

and  soup  bones,  and  apples  for  pies.  She 
ached  to  turn  back  her  sleeves  and  don  a  blue- 
and-white  checked  apron  and  roll  out  noodles. 

She  still  was  fighting  that  wild  impulse  as  she 
walked  back  to  the  hotel,  went  up  to  her  stuffy 
room,  and,  without  removing  hat  or  coat,  seated 
herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  stared  long 
and  hard  at  the  tan  wall-paper. 

There  is  this  peculiarity  about  tan  wall-paper. 
If  you  stare  at  it  long  enough  you  begin  to  see 
things.  Emma  McChesney,  who  pulled  down 
something  over  thirty-two  hundred  a  year  sell- 
ing Featherloom  Petticoats,  saw  this: 

A  kitchen,  very  bright  and  clean,  with  a  clut- 
tered kind  of  cleanliness  that  bespeaks  many 
housewifely  tasks  under  way.  There  were 
mixing  bowls,  and  saucepans,  and  a  kettle  or  so, 
and  from  the  oven  there  came  the  sounds  of 
spluttering  and  hissing.  About  the  room  there 
hung  the  divinely  delectable  scent  of  freshly 
baked  cookies.  Emma  McChesney  saw  herself 
in  an  all-enveloping  checked  gingham  apron, 
her  sleeves  rolled  up,  her  hair  somewhat  wild, 
and  one  lock  powdered  with  white  where  she 
had  pushed  it  back  with  a  floury  hand.  Her 
cheeks  were  surprisingly  pink,  and  her  eyes 

[37] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

were  very  bright,  and  she  was  scraping  a  bak- 
ing board  and  rolling-pin,  and  trimming  the 
edges  of  pie  tins,  and  turning  with  a  whirl  to 
open  the  oven  door,  stooping  to  dip  up  spoon- 
fuls of  gravy  only  to  pour  the  rich  brown  liquid 
over  the  meat  again.  There  were  things  on 
top  of  the  stove  that  required  sticking  into  with 
a  fork,  and  other  things  that  demanded  tasting 
and  stirring  with  a  spoon.  A  neighbor  came  in 
to  borrow  a  cup  of  molasses,  and  Emma  urged 
upon  her  one  of  her  freshly  baked  cookies.  And 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  front-door  bell,  and  she 
had  to  rush  away  to  do  battle  with  a  persistent 
book  agent.  .  .  . 

The  buzzing  fly  alighted  on  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  left  eyebrow.  She  swatted  it  with  a  hand 
that  was  not  quite  quick  enough,  spoiled  the 
picture,  and  slowly  rose  from  her  perch  at  the 
bedside. 

u  Oh,  damn!"  she  remarked,  wearily,  and 
went  over  to  the  dresser.  Then  she  pulled 
down  her  shirtwaist  all  around  and  went  down 
to  supper. 

The  dining-room  was  very  warm,  and  there 
came  a  smell  of  lardy  things  from  the  kitchen. 
Those  supping  were  doing  so  languidly. 

[38] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

"  I'm  dying  for  something  cool,  and  green, 
and  fresh,"  remarked  Emma  to  the  girl  who 
filled  her  glass  with  iced  water;  "something 
springish  and  tempting." 

"Well,"  sing-songed  she  of  the  ruffled, 
starched  skirt,  "  we  have  ham'n-aigs,  mutton 
chops,  cold  veal,  cold  roast  — " 

*  Two,  fried,"  interrupted  Emma  hopelessly, 
"  and  a  pot  of  tea  —  black." 

Supper  over  she  passed  through  the  lobby  on 
her  way  upstairs.  The  place  was  filled  with 
men.  They  were  lolling  in  the  big  leather 
chairs  at  the  window,  or  standing  about,  smok- 
ing and  talking.  There  was  a  rattle  of  dice 
from  the  cigar  counter,  and  a  burst  of  laughter 
from  the  men  gathered  about  it.  It  all  looked 
very  bright,  and  cheery,  and  sociable.  Emma 
McChesney,  turning  to  ascend  the  stairs  to  her 
room,  felt  that  she,  too,  would  like  to  sit  in  one 
of  the  big  leather  chairs  in  the  window  and  talk 
to  some  one. 

Some  one  was  playing  the  piano  in  the  parlor. 
The  doors  were  open.  Emma  McChesney 
glanced  in.  Then  she  stopped.  It  was  not  the 
appearance  of  the  room  that  held  her.  You 
may  have  heard  of  the  wilds  of  an  African 

[39] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

jungle  —  the  trackless  wastes  of  the  desert  — 
the  solitude  of  the  forest  —  the  limitless  stretch 
of  the  storm-tossed  ocean;  they  are  cozy  and 
snug  when  compared  to  the  utter  and  soul-sear- 
ing dreariness  of  a  small  town  hotel  parlor. 
You  know  what  it  is  —  red  carpet,  red  plush 
and  brocade  furniture,  full-length  walnut  mir- 
ror, battered  piano  on  which  reposes  a  sheet  of 
music  given  away  with  the  Sunday  supplement 
of  a  city  paper. 

A  man  was  seated  at  the  piano,  playing.  He 
was  not  playing  the  Sunday  supplement  sheet 
music.  His  brown  hat  was  pushed  back  on  his 
head  and  there  was  a  fat  cigar  in  his  pursy 
mouth,  and  as  he  played  he  squinted  up  through 
the  smoke.  He  was  playing  Mendelssohn's 
Spring  Song.  Not  as  you  have  heard  it  played 
by  sweet  young  things;  not  as  you  have  heard 
it  rendered  by  the  Apollo  String  Quartette. 
Under  his  fingers  it  was  a  fragrant,  trembling, 
laughing,  sobbing,  exquisite  thing.  He  was 
playing  it  in  a  way  to  make  you  stare  straight 
ahead  and  swallow  hard. 

Emma  McChesney  leaned  her  head  against 
the  door.  The  man  at  the  piano  did  not  turn. 
So  she  tip-toed  in,  found  a  chair  in  a  corner,  and 

[40] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

noiselessly  slipped  into  it.  She  sat  very  still, 
listening,  and  the  past-that-might-have-been,  and 
the  future-that-was-to-be,  stretched  behind  and 
before  her,  as  is  strangely  often  the  case  when 
we  are  listening  to  music.  She  stared  ahead 
with  eyes  that  were  very  wide  open  and  bright. 
Something  in  the  attitude  of  the  man  sitting 
hunched  there  over  the  piano  keys,  and  some- 
thing in  the  beauty  and  pathos  of  the  music 
brought  a  hot  haze  of  tears  to  her  eyes.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  shut  her  eyes  and  wept  quietly  and  heart- 
brokenly.  The  tears  slid  down  her  cheeks,  and 
dropped  on  her  smart  tailored  waist  and  her 
Irish  lace  jabot,  and  she  didn't  care  a  bit. 

The  last  lovely  note  died  away.  The  fat 
man's  hands  dropped  limply  to  his  sides. 
Emma  McChesney  stared  at  them,  fascinated. 
They  were  quite  marvelous  hands ;  not  at  all  the 
sort  of  hands  one  would  expect  to  see  attached 
to  the  wrists  of  a  fat  man.  They  were  slim, 
nervous,  sensitive  hands,  pink-tipped,  tapering, 
blue-veined,  delicate.  As  Emma  McChesney 
stared  at  them  the  man  turned  slowly  on  the  re- 
volving stool.  His  plump,  pink  face  was  dol- 
orous, sagging,  wan-eyed. 

[41] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

He  watched  Emma  McChesney  as  she  sat  up 
and  dried  her  eyes.  A  satisfied  light  dawned 
in  his  face. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  and  mopped  his  fore- 
head and  chin  and  neck  with  the  brown-edged 
handkerchief. 

"  You  —  you  can't  be  Paderewski.  He's 
thin.  But  if  he  plays  any  better  than  that,  then 
I  don't  want  to  hear  him.  You've  upset  me  for 
the  rest  of  the  week.  You've  started  me  think- 
ing about  things  —  about  things  that  —  that — " 

The  fat  man  clasped  his  thin,  nervous  hands 
in  front  of  him  and  leaned  forward. 

"  About  things  that  you're  trying  to  forget. 
It  starts  me  that  way,  too.  That's  why  some- 
times I  don't  touch  the  keys  for  weeks;  Say, 
what  do  you  think  of  a  man  who  can  play  like 
that,  and  who  is  out  on  the  road  for  a  living 
just  because  he  knows  it's  a  sure  thing? 
Music!  That's  my  gift.  And  I've  buried  it. 
Why?  Because  the  public  won't  take  a  fat 
man  seriously.  When  he  sits  down  at  the  piano 
they  begin  to  howl  for  Italian  rag.  Why,  I'd 
rather  play  the  piano  in  a  five-cent  moving  pic- 
ture house  than  do  what  I'm  doing  now.  But 
the  old  man  wanted  his  son  to  be  a  business 

[42] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

man,  not  a  crazy,  piano-playing  galoot.  That's 
the  way  he  put  it.  And  I  was  darn  fool  enough 
to  think  he  was  right.  Why  can't  people  stand 
up  and  do  the  things  they're  out  to  do!  Not 
one  person  in  a  thousand  does.  Why,  take  you 
—  I  don't  know  you  from  Eve,  but  just  from 
the  way  you  shed  the  briny  I  know  you're  busy 
regretting." 

"  Regretting?  "  repeated  Emma  McChesney, 
in  a  wail.  "  Do  you  know  what  I  am?  I'm  a 
lady  drummer.  And  do  you  know  what  I  want 
to  do  this  minute?  I  want  to  clean  house.  I 
want  to  wind  a  towel  around  my  head,  and  pin 
up  my  skirt,  and  slosh  around  with  a  pail  of 
hot,  soapy  water.  I  want  to  pound  a  couple  of 
mattresses  in  the  back  yard,  and  eat  a  cold  din- 
ner off  the  kitchen  table.  That's  what  I  want 
to  do." 

"  Well,  go  on  and  do  it,"  said  the  fat  man. 

"  Do  it?  I  haven't  any  house  to  clean.  I 
got  my  divorce  ten  years  ago,  and  IVe  been  on 
the  road  ever  since.  I  don't  know  why  I  stick. 
I'm  pulling  down  a  good,  fat  salary  and  com- 
missions, but  it's  no  life  for  a  woman,  and  I 
know  it,  but  I'm  not  big  enough  to  quit.  It's 
different  with  a  man  on  the  road.  He  can 

[43] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

spend  his  evenings  taking  in  two  or  three  nickel 
shows,  or  he  can  stand  on  the  drug-store  corner 
and  watch  the  pretty  girls  go  by,  or  he  can  have 
a  game  of  billiards,  or  maybe  cards.  Or  he 
can  have  a  nice,  quiet  time  just  going  up  to  his 
room,  and  smoking  a  cigar  and  writing  to  his 
wife  or  his  girl.  D'you  know  what  I  do?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  fat  man,   interestedly. 
"What?" 

"  Evenings  I  go  up  to  my  room  and  sew  or 
read.  Sew!  Every  hook  and  eye  and  button 
on  my  clothes  is  moored  so  tight  that  even  the 
hand  laundry  can't  tear  'em  off.  You  couldn't 
pry  those  fastenings  away  with  dynamite. 
When  I  find  a  hole  in  my  stockings  I'm  tickled 
to  death,  because  it's  something  to  mend.  And 
read?  Everything  from  the  Rules  of  the 
House  tacked  up  on  the  door  to  spelling  out  the 
French  short  story  in  the  back  of  the  Swell  Set 
Magazine.  It's  getting  on  my  nerves.  Do 
you  know  what  I  do  Sunday  mornings?  No, 
you  don't.  Well,  I  go  to  church,  that's  what 
I  do.  And  I  get  green  with  envy  watching  the 
other  women  there  getting  nervous  about  1 1 145 
or  so,  when  the  minister  is  still  in  knee-deep, 
and  I  know  they're  wondering  if  Lizzie  has 

[44] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

basted  the  chicken  often  enough,  and  if  she  has 
put  the  celery  in  cold  water,  and  the  ice-cream  is 
packed  in  burlap  in  the  cellar,  and  if  she  has 
forgotten  to  mix  in  a  tablespoon  of  flour  to 
make  it  smooth.  You  can  tell  by  the  look  on 
their  faces  that  there's  company  for  dinner. 
And  you  know  that  after  dinner  they'll  sit 
around,  and  the  men  will  smoke,  and  the  women 
folks  will  go  upstairs,  and  she'll  show  the  Bother 
woman  her  new  scalloped,  monogrammed,  hand- 
embroidered  guest  towels,  and  the  waist  that 
her  cousin  Ethel  brought  from  Paris.  And 
maybe  they'll  slip  off  their  skirts  and  lie  down 
on  the  spare-room  bed  for  a  ten  minutes'  nap. 
And  you  can  hear  the  hired  girl  rattling  the 
dishes  in  the  kitchen,  and  talking  to  her  lady 
friend  who  is  helping  her  wipe  up  so  they  can 
get  out  early.  You  can  hear  the  two  of  them 
laughing  above  the  clatter  of  the  dishes  - — " 

The  fat  man  banged  one  fist  down  on  the 
piano  keys  with  a  crash. 

"  I'm  through,"  he  said.  "  I  quit  to-night. 
I've  got  my  own  life  to  live.  Here,  will  you 
shake  on  it?  I'll  quit  if  you  will.  You're  a 
born  housekeeper.  You  don't  belong  on  the 
road  any  more  than  I  do.  It's  now  or  never. 

[45] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

And  it's  going  to  be  now  with  me.  When  I 
strike  the  pearly  gates  I'm  not  going  to  have 
Saint  Peter  say  to  me,  '  Ed,  old  kid,  what  have 
you  done  with  your  talents?  ' 

"  You're  right,"  sobbed  Emma  McChesney, 
her  face  glowing. 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  the  fat  man, 
"  what's  your  line?  " 

"Petticoats.  I'm  out  for  T.  A.  Buck's 
Featherloom  Skirts.  What's  yours?" 

"Suffering  cats!"  shouted  the  fat  man. 
"  D'  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're  the  fellow 
who  sold  that  bill  to  Blum,  of  the  Novelty 
Cloak  and  Suit  concern,  and  spoiled  a  sale  for 
me?" 

"  You  !     Are  you  — " 

"  You  bet  I  am.  I  sell  the  best  little  skirt  in 
the  world.  Strauss's  Sans-silk  Petticoat,  war- 
ranted not  to  crack,  rip,  or  fall  into  holes. 
Greatest  little  skirt  in  the  country." 

Emma  McChesney  straightened  her  collar 
and  jabot  with  a  jerk,  and  sat  up. 

"  Oh,  now,  don't  give  me  that  bunk.  You've 
got  a  good  little  seller,  all  right,  but  that  guar- 
anty don't  hold  water  any  more  than  the  petti- 
coat contains  silk.  I  know  that  stuff.  It  looms 

[46] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

up  big  in  the  window  displays,  but  it's  got  a  filler 
of  glucose,  or  starch  or  mucilage  or  something, 
and  two  days  after  you  wear  it  it's  as  limp  as  a 
cheesecloth  rag.  It's  showy,  but  you  take  a 
line  like  mine,  for  instance,  why — " 

"  My  customers  swear  by  me.  I  make  De- 
Kalb  to-morrow,  and  there's  Nussbaum,  of  the 
Paris  Emporium,  the  biggest  store  there,  who 
just—" 

"  I  make  DeKalb,  too,"  remarked  Emma 
McChesney,  the  light  of  battle  in  her  eye. 

'  You  mean,"  gently  insinuated  the  fat  man, 
u  that  you  were  going  to,  but  that's  all  over 


now." 


"Huh?"  said  Emma. 

"  Our  agreement,  you  know,"  the  fat  man  re- 
minded her,  sweetly.  "  You  aren't  going  back 
on  that.  The  cottage  and  the  Sunday  dinner 
for  you,  remember." 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Emma  listlessly.  "  I 
think  I'll  go  up  and  get  some  sleep  now. 
Didn't  get  much  last  night  on  the  road." 

'  Won't  you  — -er  —  come  down  and  have  a 
little  something  moist?  Or  we  could  have  it 
sent  up  here,"  suggested  the  fat  man. 

1  You're  the  third  man  that's  asked  me  that 

[47] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

to-day,"  snapped  Emma  McChesney,  somewhat 
crossly.  "  Say,  what  do  I  look  like,  anyway? 
I  guess  I'll  have  to  pin  a  white  ribbon  on  my 
coat  lapel." 

"  No  offense,"  put  in  the  fat  man,  with  haste. 
"  I  just  thought  it  would  bind  our  bargain.  I 
hope  you'll  be  happy,  and  contented,  and  all 
that,  you  know." 

"  Let  it  go  double,"  replied  Emma  McChes- 
ney, and  shook  his  hand. 

"  Guess  I'll  run  down  and  get  a  smoke,"  re- 
marked he. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs  in  a  manner  wonder- 
fully airy  for  one  so  stout.  Emma  watched 
him  until  he  disappeared  around  a  bend  in  the 
stairs.  Then  she  walked  hastily  in  the  direc- 
tion of  sixty-five. 

Down  in  the  lobby  the  fat  man,  cigar  in 
mouth,  was  cautioning  the  clerk,  and  emphasiz- 
ing his  remarks  with  one  forefinger. 

"  I  want  to  leave  a  call  for  six-thirty,"  He 
was  saying.  u  Not  a  minute  later.  I've  got  to 
get  out  of  here  on  that  7  135  for  DeKalb.  Got 
a  Sunday  custpmer  there." 

As  he  turned  away  a  telephone  bell  tinkled  at 
the  desk.  The  clerk  bent  his  stately  head. 

[48] 


REPRESENTING  T.  A.  BUCK 

4<  Clerk.  Yes,  ma'am.  No,  ma'am,  there's 
no  train  out  of  here  to-night  for  DeKalb.  To- 
morrow morning.  Seven  thirty-five  A.M.  I 
sure  will.  At  six-thirty?  Surest  thing  you 
know." 


[49] 


Ill 

CHICKENS 

T?OR  the  benefit  of  the  bewildered  reader 
it  should  be  said  that  there  are  two  distinct 
species  of  chickens.  There  is  the  chicken  which 
you  find  in  the  barnyard,  in  the  incubator,  or  on 
a  hat.  And  there  is  the  type  indigenous  to 
State  Street,  Chicago.  Each  is  known  by  its 
feathers.  The  barnyard  variety  may  puzzle 
the  amateur  fancier,  but  there  is  no  mistaking 
the  State  Street  chicken.  It  is  known  by  its 
soiled,  high,  white  canvas  boots;  by  its  tight, 
short  black  skirt;  by  its  slug  pearl  earrings;  by 
its  bewildering  coiffure.  By  every  line  of  its 
slim  young  body,  by  every  curve  of  its  cheek 
and  throat  you  know  it  is  adorably,  pitifully 
young.  By  its  carmined  lip,  its  near-smart  hat, 
its  babbling  of  "  him,"  and  by  the  knowledge 
which  looks  boldly  out  of  its  eyes  you  know  it  is 
tragically  old. 

Seated  in  the  Pullman  car,  with  a  friendly 

[50] 


CHICKENS 

newspaper  protecting  her  bright  hair  from  the 
doubtful  gray-white  of  the  chair  cover,  Emma 
McChesney,  traveling  saleswoman  for  T.  A. 
Buck's  Featherloom  Petticoats,  was  watching 
the  telegraph  poles  chase  each  other  back  to 
Duluth,  Minnesota,  and  thinking  fondly  of 
Mary  Cutting,  who  is  the  mother-confessor  and 
comforter  of  the  State  Street  chicken. 

Now,  Duluth,  Minnesota,  is  trying  to  be  a 
city.  In  watching  its  struggles  a  hunger  for  a 
taste  of  the  real  city  had  come  upon  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney. She  had  been  out  with  her  late  Fall 
line  from  May  until  September.  Every  Mid- 
dle-Western town  of  five  thousand  inhabitants  or 
over  had  received  its  share  of  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  attention  and  petticoats.  It  had  been  a 
mystifyingly  good  season  in  a  bad  business  year. 
Even  old  T.  A.  himself  was  almost  satisfied. 
Commissions  piled  up  with  gratifying  regularity 
for  Emma  McChesney.  Then,  quite  suddenly, 
the  lonely  evenings,  the  lack  of  woman  compan- 
ionship, and  the  longing  for  a  sight  of  her  sev- 
enteen-year-old son  had  got  on  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  nerves. 

She  was  two  days  ahead  of  her  schedule, 
whereupon  she  wired  her  son,  thus: 


CHICKENS 

"Dear  Kid: 

"  Meet  me  Chicago  usual  place  Friday  large  time 
my  treat.  MOTHER." 

Then  she  had  packed  her  bag,  wired  Mary 
Cutting  that  she  would  see  her  Thursday,  and 
had  taken  the  first  train  out  for  Chicago. 

You  might  have  found  the  car  close,  stuffy, 
and  uninteresting.  Ten  years  on  the  road  had 
taught  Emma  McChesney  to  extract  a  maxi- 
mum of  enjoyment  out  of  a  minimum  of  ma- 
terial.  Emma  McChesney's  favorite  occupa- 
tion was  selling  T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom  Pet- 
ticoats, and  her  favorite  pastime  was  studying 
men  and  women.  The  two  things  went  well 
together. 

When  the  train  stopped  for  a  minute  or  two 
you  could  hear  a  faint  rattle  and  click  from  the 
direction  of  the  smoking  compartment  where 
three  jewelry  salesmen  from  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  were  indulging  in  their  beloved,  but 
dangerous  diversion  of  dice  throwing.  Just 
across  the  aisle  was  a  woman,  with  her  daugh- 
ter, Chicago-bound  to  buy  a  trousseau.  They 
were  typical,  wealthy  small-town  women  smartly 
garbed  in  a  fashion  not  more  than  twenty  min- 

[52] 


CHICKENS 

utes  late.  In  the  quieter  moments  of  the  trip 
Emma  McChesney  could  hear  the  mother's 
high-pitched,  East  End  Ladies'  Reading  Club 
voice  saying: 

"  I'd  have  the  velvet  suit  made  fussy,  with  a 
real  fancy  waist  to  match,  for  afternoons. 
You  can  go  anywhere  in  a  handsome  velvet 
three-piece  suit." 

The  girl  had  smiled,  dreamily,  and  gazed  out 
of  the  car  window.  "  I  wonder,"  she  said, 
"  if  there'll  be  a  letter  from  George.  He 
said  he  would  sit  right  down  and  write." 

In  the  safe  seclusion  of  her  high-backed  chair 
Emma  McChesney  smiled  approvingly.  Sev- 
enteen years  ago,  when  her  son  had  been  born, 
and  ten  years  ago,  when  she  had  got  her  di- 
vorce, Emma  McChesney  had  thanked  her  God 
that  her  boy  had  not  been  a  girl.  Sometimes, 
now,  she  was  not  so  sure  about  it.  It  must  be 
fascinating  work  —  selecting  velvet  suits,  made 
"  fussy,"  for  a  daughter's  trousseau. 

Just  how  fully  those  five  months  of  small- 
town existence  had  got  on  her  nerves  Emma 
McChesney  did  not  realize  until  the  train 
snorted  into  the  shed  and  she  sniffed  the  mingled 
smell  of  smoke  and  stockyards  and  found  it 

[53] 


CHICKENS 

sweet  in  her  nostrils.  An  unholy  joy  seized 
her.  She  entered  the  Biggest  Store  and  made 
for  the  millinery  department,  yielding  to  an  un- 
controllable desire  to  buy  a  hat.  It  was  a  pert, 
trim,  smart  little  hat.  It  made  her  thirty-six 
years  seem  less  possible  than  ever,  and  her  sev- 
enteen-year-old son  an  absurdity. 

It  was  four-thirty  when  she  took  the  elevator 
up  to  Mary  Cutting's  office  on  the  tenth  floor. 
She  knew  she  would  find  Mary  Cutting  there  — 
Mary  Cutting,  friend,  counselor,  adviser  to 
every  young  girl  in  the  great  store  and  to  all 
Chicago's  silly,  helpless  "  chickens." 

A  dragon  sat  before  Mary  Cutting's  door  and 
wrote  names  on  slips.  But  at  sight  of  Emma 
McChesney  she  laid  down  her  pencil. 
;<  Well,"  smiled  the  dragon,  "  you're  a  sight  for 
sore  eyes.  There's  nobody  in  there  with  her. 
Just  walk  in  and  surprise  her." 

At  a  rosewood  desk  in  a  tiny  cozy  office  sat 
a  pink-cheeked,  white-haired  woman.  You  as- 
sociated her  in  your  mind  with  black  velvet  and 
real  lace.  She  did  not  look  up  as  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney entered.  Emma  McChesney  waited 
for  one  small  moment.  Then : 

"  Cut  out  the  bank   president   stuff,   Mary 
[54] 


CHICKENS 

Cutting,  and  make  a  fuss  over  me,"  she  com- 
manded. 

The  pink-cheeked,  white-haired  woman 
looked  up.  You  saw  that  her  eyes  were  won- 
derfully young.  She  made  three  marks  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  pushed  a  call-button  at  her  desk, 
rose,  and  hugged  Emma  McChesney  thoroughly 
and  satisfactorily,  then  held  her  off  a  moment 
and  demanded  to  know  where  she  had  bought 
her  hat. 

"  Got  it  ten  minutes  ago,  in  the  millinery  de- 
partment downstairs.  Had  to.  If  I'd  have 
come  into  New  York  after  five  months'  exile 
like  this  I'd  probably  have  bought  a  brocade 
and  fur-edged  evening  wrap,  to  relieve  this 
feeling  of  wild  joy.  For  five  months  I've 
spent  my  evenings  in  my  hotel  room,  or  watch-, 
ing  the  Maude  Byrnes  Stock  Company  playing 
"  Lena  Rivers,"  with  the  ingenue  coming  out 
between  the  acts  in  a  calico  apron  and  a  pink 
sunbonnet  and  doing  a  thing  they  bill  as  vaude- 
ville. I'm  dying  to  see  a  real  show  —  a  smart 
one  that  hasn't  run  two  hundred  nights  on 
Broadway  —  one  with  pretty  girls,  and  pink 
tights,  and  a  lot  of  moonrises,  and  sunsets  and 
things,  and  a  prima  donna  in  a  dress  so  stun- 

[55] 


CHICKENS 

tring  that  all  the  women  in  the  audience  are  busy 
copying  it  so  they  can  describe  it  to  their  home- 
dressmaker  next  day." 

"  Poor,  poor  child,"  said  Mary  Cutting, 
"  I  don't  seem  to  recall  any  such  show." 

'*  Well,  it  will  look  that  way  to  me,  anyway,'* 
said  Emma  McChesney.  "  I've  wired  Jock 
to  meet  me  to-morrow,  and  I'm  going  to  give 
the  child  a  really  sizzling  little  vacation.  But 
to-night  you  and  I  will  have  an  old-girl  frolic. 
We'll  have  dinner  together  somewhere  down- 
town, and  then  we'll  go  to  the  theater,  and  after 
that  I'm  coming  out  to  that  blessed  flat  of  yours 
and  sleep  between  real  sheets.  We'll  have 
some  sandwiches  and  beer  and  other  things  out 
of  the  ice-box,  and  then  we'll  have  a  bathroom 
bee.  We'll  let  down  our  back  hair,  and  slap 
cold  cream  around,  and  tell  our  hearts'  secrets 
and  use  up  all  the  hot  water.  Lordy!  It  will 
be  a  luxury  to  have  a  bath  in  a  tub  that  doesn't 
make  you  feel  as  though  you  wanted  to  scrub  it 
out  with  lye  and  carbolic.  Come  on,  Mary 
Cutting." 

Mary  Cutting's  pink  cheeks  dimpled  like  a 
.girl's.  ' 

*  You'll  never  grow  up,  Emma  McChesney 

[56] 


"'Ycru'll  never  grow  up,  Emma  McChesney'" — Page  56 


CHICKENS 

—  at  least,  I  hope  you  never  will.  Sit  there 
in  the  corner  and  be  a  good  child,  and  I'll  be 
ready  for  you  in  ten  minutes." 

Peace  settled  down  on  the  tiny  office.  Emma 
McChesney,  there  in  her  corner,  surveyed  the 
little  room  with  entire  approval.  It  breathed 
of  things  restful,  wholesome,  comforting. 
There  was  a  bowl  of  sweet  peas  on  the  desk; 
there  was  an  Indian  sweet  grass  basket  filled 
with  autumn  leaves  in  the  corner;  there  was  an 
air  of  orderliness  and  good  taste;  and  there  was 
the  pink-cheeked,  white-haired  woman  at  the 
desk. 

"  There !  "  said  Mary  Cutting,  at  last.  She 
removed  her  glasses,  snapped  them  up  on  a 
little  spring-chain  near  her  shoulder,  sat  back, 
and  smiled  upon  Emma  McChesney. 

Emma  McChesney  smiled  back  at  her. 
Theirs  was  not  a  talking  friendship.  It  was 
a  thing  of  depth  and  understanding,  like  the 
friendship  between  two  men. 

They  sat  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
down  beyond,  where  the  soul  holds  forth. 
And  because  what  each  saw  there  was  beautiful 
and  sightly  they  were  seized  with  a  shyness  such 
as  two  men  feel  when  they  love  each  other,  and 

[59] 


CHICKENS 

so  they  awkwardly  endeavored  to  cover  up  their 
shyness  with  words. 

"  You  could  stand  a  facial  and  a  decent  scalp 
massage,  Emma,"  observed  Mary  Cutting  in  a 
tone  pregnant  with  love  and  devotion.  "  Your 
.hair  looks  a  little  dry.  Those  small-town  mani- 
cures don't  know  how  to  give  a  real  treatment.'1 

"  I'll  have  it  to-morrow  morning,  before  the 
Kid  gets  in  at  eleven.  As  the  Lily  Russell  of 
the  traveling  profession  I  can't  afford  to  let  my 
beauty  wane.  That  complexion  of  yours  makes 
me  mad,  Mary.  It  goes  through  a  course  of 
hard  water  and  Chicago  dirt  and  comes  up  look- 
ing like  a  rose  leaf  with  the  morning  dew  on  it. 
Where'll  we  have  supper?  " 

"  I  know  a  new  place,"  replied  Mary  Cut- 
ting. "  German,  but  not  greasy." 

She  was  sorting,  marking,  and  pigeonholing 
various  papers  and  envelopes.  When  her  desk 
was  quite  tidy  she  shut  and  locked  it,  and  came 
over  to  Emma  McChesney. 

"  Something  nice  happened  to  me  to-day," 
.-she  said,  softly.  "  Something  that  made  me 
realize  how  worth  while  life  is.  You  know 
we  have  five  thousand  women  working  here  — 
almost  double  that  during  the  holidays.  A  lot 

[60] 


CHICKENS 

of  them  are  under  twenty  and,  Emma,  a  work- 
ing girl,  under  twenty,  in  a  city  like  this  — 
Well,  a  brand  new  girl  was  looking  for  me  to- 
day. She  didn't  know  the  way  to  my  office, 
and  she  didn't  know  my  name.  So  she  stopped 
one  of  the  older  clerks,  blushed  a  little,  and 
said,  '  Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  office  of 
the  Comfort  Lady?  '  That's  worth  working 
for,  isn't  it,  Emma  McChesney?  " 

"  It's  worth  living  for,"  answered  Emma 
McChesney,  gravely.  "  It  —  it's  worth  dying, 
for.  To  think  that  those  girls  come  to  you 
with  their  little  sacred  things,  their  troubles, 
and  misfortunes,  and  unhappinesses  and  — " 

"  And  their  disgraces  —  sometimes,"  Mary 
Cutting  finished  for  her.  "  Oh,  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney, sometimes  I  wonder  why  there  isn't 
a  national  school  for  the  education  of  mothers. 
I  marvel  at  their  ignorance  more  and  more 
every  day.  Remember,  Emma,  when  we  were 
kids  our  mothers  used  to  send  us  flying  to  the 
grocery  on  baking  day?  All  the  way  from 
our  house  to  Hine's  grocery  I'd  have  to  keep 
on  saying,  over  and  over :  '  Sugar,  butter,  molas- 
ses; sugar,  butter,  molasses;  sugar,  butter, 
molasses.7  If  I  stopped  for  a  minute  I'd  for- 
[61] 


CHICKENS 

get  the  whole  thing.  It  isn't  so  different  now. 
Sometimes  at  night,  going  home  in  the  car  after 
a  day  so  bad  that  the  whole  world  seems  rotten, 
I  make  myself  say,  over  and  over,  as  I  used  to 
repeat  my  '  Sugar,  butter,  and  molasses.'  '  It's 
a  glorious,  good  old  world;  it's  a  glorious,  good 
old  world;  it's  a  glorious,  good  old  world.' 
And  I  daren't  stop  for  a  minute  for  fear  of  for- 
getting my  lesson." 

For  the  third  time  in  that  short  half-hour  a 
silence  fell  between  the  two  —  a  silence  of  per- 
fect sympathy  and  understanding. 

Five  little  strokes,  tripping  over  each  other 
in  their  haste,  came  from  the  tiny  clock  on 
Mary  Cutting's  desk.  It  roused  them  both. 

"  Come  on,  old  girl,"  said  Mary  Cutting. 
"  I've  a  chore  or  two  still  to  do  before  my 
day  is  finished.  Come  along,  if  you  like. 
There's  a  new  girl  at  the  perfumes  who  wears 
too  many  braids,  and  puffs,  and  curls,  and  in 
the  basement  misses'  ready-to-wear  there's  an- 
other who  likes  to  break  store  rules  about  short- 
sleeved,  lace-yoked  lingerie  waists.  And  one 
of  the  floor  managers  tells  me  that  a  young  chap 
of  that  callow,  semi-objectionable,  high-school 
fraternity,  flat-heeled  shoe  type  has  been  persist- 

[62]  ' 


'"Well,  s'long,  then,  Shrimp.     See  you  at  eight'"— Page  65 


CHICKENS 

ently  hanging  around  the  desk  of  the  pretty 
little  bundle  inspector  at  the  veilings.  We're 
trying  to  clear  the  store  of  that  type.  They 
call  girls  of  that  description  chickens.  I  won- 
der why  some  one  hasn't  found  a  name  for  the 
masculine  chicken." 

"  I'll  give  'em  one,"  said  Emma  McChesney 
as  they  swung  down  a  broad,  bright  aisle  of  the 
4Store.  "  Call  'em  weasels.  That  covers  their 
style,  occupation,  and  character." 

They  swung  around  the  corner  to  the  veil- 
ings, and  there  they  saw  the  very  pretty,  very 
blond,  very  young  "  chicken  "  deep  in  conver- 
sation with  her  weasel.  The  weasel's  trousers 
were  very  tight  and  English,  and  his  hat  was 
properly  woolly  and  Alpine  and  dented  very 
much  on  one  side  and  his  heels  were  fashion- 
ably flat,  and  his  hair  was  slickly  pompadour. 

Mary  Cutting  and  Emma  McChesney  ap- 
proached them  very  quietly  just  in  time  to  hear 
the  weasel  say: 

"  Well,  s'  long  then,  Shrimp.  See  you  at 
eight." 

And  he  swung  around  and  faced  them. 

That  sick  horror  of  uncertainty  which  had 
clutched  at  Emma  McChesney  when  first  she 

[65] 


CHICKENS 

saw  the  weasel's  back  held  her  with  awful  cer- 
tainty now.  But  ten  years  on  the  road  had 
taught  her  self-control,  among  other  things. 
So  she  looked  steadily  and  calmly  into  her  son's 
scarlet  face.  Jock's  father  had  been  a  liar. 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  boy's  arm. 

"  You're  a  day  ahead  of  schedule,  Jock,"  she 
said  evenly. 

"  So  are  you,"  retorted  Jock,  sullenly,  his 
hands  jammed  into  his  pockets. 

"  All  the  better  for  both  of  us,  Kid.  I  was 
just  going  over  to  the  hotel  to  clean  up,  Jock. 
Come  along,  boy." 

The  boy's  jaw  set.  His  eyes  sought  any 
haven  but  that  of  Emma  McChesney's  eyes. 
"  I  can't,"  he  said,  his  voice  very  low.  "  I've 
an  engagement  to  take  dinner  with  a  bunch  of 
the  fellows.  We're  going  down  to  the  Inn, 
.Sorry." 

A  certain  cold  rigidity  settled  over  Emma 
McChesney's  face.  She  eyed  her  son  in  silence 
until  his  miserable  eyes,  perforce,  looked  up 
into  hers. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  break  your  en- 
gagement," she  said. 

She  turned  to  face  Mary  Cutting's  regretful, 
[66] 


CHICKENS 

understanding  gaze.  Her  eyebrows  lifted 
slightly.  Her  head  inclined  ever  so  little  in 
the  direction  of  the  half-scared,  half-defiant 
"  chicken." 

"  You  attend  to  your  chicken,  Mary,"  she 
said.  "  I'll  see  to  my  weasel." 

So  Emma  McChesney  and  her  son  Jock, 
looking  remarkably  like  brother  and  sister, 
walked  down  the  broad  store  aisles  and  out 
into  the  street.  There  was  little  conversation 
between  them.  When  the  pillared  entrance  of 
the  hotel  came  into  sight  Jock  broke  the  silence, 
sullenly : 

"Why  do  you  stop  at  that  old  barracks? 
It's  a  rotten  place  for  a  woman.  No  one  stops 
there  but  clothing  salesmen  and  boobs  who  still 
think  it's  Chicago's  leading  hotel.  No  place 
for  a  lady." 

"  Any  place  in  the  world  is  the  place  for  a 
lady,  Jock,"  said  Emma  McChesney  quietly. 

Automatically  she  started  toward  the  clerk's 
desk.  Then  she  remembered,  and  stopped. 
"  I'll  wait  here,"  she  said.  "  Get  the  key  for 
five-eighteen,  will  you  please?  And  tell  the 
clerk  that  I'll  want  the  room  adjoining  begin- 
ning to-night,  instead  of  to-morrow,  as  I  first 

[67] 


CHICKENS 

intended.     Tell  him  you're  Mrs.  McChesney's 


son." 


He  turned  away.  Emma  McChesney  brought 
her  handkerchief  up  to  her  mouth  and  held  it 
there  a  moment,  and  the  skin  showed  white 
over  the  knuckles  of  her  hand.  In  that  moment 
every  one  of  her  thirty-six  years  were  on  the 
table,  face  up. 

;<  We'll  wash  up,"  said  Emma  McChesney, 
when  he  returned,  u  and  then  we'll  have  dinner 
here." 

"  I  don't  want  to  eat  here,"  objected  Jock 
McChesney.  "  Besides,  there's  no  reason  why 
I  can't  keep  my  evening's  engagements." 

"  And  after  dinner,"  went  on  his  mother,  as 
though  she  had  not  heard,  "  we'll  get  ac- 
quainted, Kid." 

It  was  a  cheerless,  rather  tragic  meal,  though 
Emma  McChesney  saw  it  through  from  soup 
to  finger-bowls.  When  it  was  over  she  led  the 
way  down  the  old-fashioned,  red-carpeted  cor- 
ridors to  her  room.  It  was  the  sort  of  room  to 
get  on  its  occupant's  nerves  at  any  time,  with 
its  red  plush  arm-chairs,  its  black  walnut  bed, 
and  its  walnut  center  table  inlaid  with  an  apo- 
plectic slab  of  purplish  marble. 
[68] 


Tm.    still    in    a    position    to    enforce    that    ordinance    against 
pouting'  " — Page  71 


CHICKENS 

Emma  McChesney  took  off  her  hat  before 
the  dim  old  mirror,  and  stood  there,  fluffing 
out  her  hair  here,  patting  it  there.  Jock  had 
thrown  his  hat  and  coat  on  the  bed.  He  stood 
now,  leaning  against  the  footboard,  his  legs 
crossed,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  his  whole  attitude 
breathing  sullen  defiance. 

'  Jock,"  said  his  mother,  still  patting  her 
hair,  "  perhaps  you  don't  know  it,  but  you're 
pouting  jtast  as  you  used  to  when  you  wore  pina- 
fores. I  always  hated  pouting  children.  I'd 
rather  hear  them  howl.  I  used  to  spank  you 
for  it.  I  have  prided  myself  on  being  a  mod- 
ern mother,  but  I  want  to  mention,  in  passing^ 
that  I'm  still  in  a  position  to  enforce  that  ordi- 
nance against  pouting."  She  turned  around 
abruptly.  "  Jock,  tell  me,  how  did  you  happen 
to  come  here  a  day  ahead  of  me,  and  how  do 
you  happen  to  be  so  chummy  with  that  pretty, 
weak-faced  little  thing  at  the  veiling  counter, 
and  how,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  unbelievable, 
have  you  managed  to  become  a  grown-up  in  the 
last  few  months?  " 

Jock  regarded  the  mercifully  faded  roses  in 
the  carpet.  His  lower  lip  came  forward  again. 

u  Oh,   a  fellow  can't  always  be  tied  to  his 

[71] 


CHICKENS 

mother's  apron  strings.  I  like  to  have  a  little 
fling  myself.  I  know  a  lot  of  fellows  here. 
They  are  frat  brothers.  And  anyway,  I  needed 
some  new  clothes." 

For  one  long  moment  Emma  McChesney 
stared,  in  silence.  Then:  "  Of  course,"  she 
began,  slowly,  "  I  knew  you  were  seventeen 
years  old.  I've  even  bragged  about  it.  I've 
done  more  than  that  —  I've  gloried  in  it.  But 
somehow,  whenever  I  thought  of  you  in  my 
heart  —  and  that  was  a  great  deal  of  the  time 
—  it  was  as  though  you  still  were  a  little  tyke 
in  knee-pants,  with  your  cap  on  the  back  of 
your  head,  and  a  chunk  of  apple  bulging  your 
cheek.  Jock,  I've  been  earning  close  to  six 
thousand  a  year  since  I  put  in  that  side  line  of 
.garters.  Just  how  much  spending  money  have 
I  been  providing  you  with?  " 

Jock  twirled  a  coat  button  uncomfortably. 
"  Well,  quite  a  lot.  But  a  fellow's  got  to  have 
money  to  keep  up  appearances.  A  lot  of  the 
fellows  in  my  crowd  have  more  than  I.  There 
are  clothes,  and  tobacco,  and  then  flowers,  and 
cabs  for  the  skirts  —  girls,  I  mean,  and  — " 

"  Kid,"  impressively,  "  I  want  you  to  sit 
down  over  there  in  that  plush  chair  —  the  red 

[72] 


CHICKENS 

one,  with  the  lumps  in  the  back.  I  want  you 
to  be  uncomfortable.  From  where  I  am  sit- 
ting I  can  see  that  in  you  there  is  the  making 
of  a  first-class  cad.  That's  no-  pleasant  thing 
for  a  mother  to  realize.  Now  don't  interrupt 
me.  I'm  going  to  be  chairman,  speaker,  pro- 
gram, and  ways-and-means  committee  of  this 
meeting.  Jock,  I  got  my  divorce  from  your 
father  ten  years  ago.  .  Now,  I'm  not  going  to 
say  anything  about  him.  Just  this  one  thing. 
You're  not  going  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  Kid. 
Not  if  I  have  to  take  you  to  pieces  like  a  nickel 
watch  and  put  you  all  together  again.  You're 
Emma  McChesney's  son,  and  ten  years  from 
now  I  intend  to  be  able  to  brag  about  it,  or  I'll 
want  to  know  .the  reason  why  —  and  it'll  have 
±o  be  a  blamed  good  reason." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  I've  done!  "  blurted 
the  boy.  "  Just  because  I  happened  to  come 
here  a  few  hours  before  you  expected  me,  and 
just  because  you  saw  me  talking  to  a  girl! 
Why—" 

"  It  isn't  what  you've  done.     It's  what  those 

things  stand  for.     I've  been  at  fault.     But  I'm 

willing  to  admit  it.     Your  mother  is  a  working 

woman,     Jock.     You     don't     like     that     idea, 

[73] 


CHICKENS 


do  you?  But  you  don't  mind  spending  the 
money  that  the  working  woman  provides  you 
with,  do  you?  I'm  earning  a  man's  salary. 
But  Jock,  you  oughtn't  to  be  willing  to  live  on 


it." 


"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  "  demanded 
Jock.  "  I'm  not  out  of  high  school  yet. 
Other  fellows  whose  fathers  aren't  earning  as 
much—" 

"  Fathers,"  interrupted  Emma  McChesney. 
"  There  you  are.  Jock,  I  don't  have  to  make 
the  distinction  for  you.  You're  sufficiently  my 
son  to  know  it,  in  your  heart.  I  had  planned 
to  give  you  a  college  education,  if  you  showed 
yourself  deserving.  I  don't  believe  in  sending 
a  boy  in  your  position  to  college  unless  he  shows 
some  special  leaning  toward  a  profession." 

"  Mother,  you  know  how  wild  I  am  about 
machines,  and  motors,  and  engineering,  and  all 
that  goes  with  it.  Why  I'd  work — " 

"You'll  have  to,  Jock.  That's  the  only 
thing  that  will  make  a  man  of  you.  I've 
started  you  wrong,  but  it  isn't  too  late  yet. 
It's  all  very  well  for  boys  with  rich  fathers  to 
run  to  clothes,  and  city  jaunts,  and  *  chickens,' 
and  cabs  and  flowers.  Your  mother  is  working 

[74] 


CHICKENS 

tooth  and  nail  to  earn  her  six  thousand,  and 
when  you  realize  just  what  it  means  for  a 
woman  to  battle  against  men  in  a  man's  game, 
you'll  stop  being  a  spender,  and  become  an 
earner  —  because  you'll  want  to.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'm  going  to  do,  Kid.  I'm  going  to  take 
you  on  the  road  with  me  for  two  weeks.  You'll 
learn  so  many  things  that  at  the  end  of  that 
time  the  sides  of  your  head  will  be  bulging." 

"  I'd  like  it!  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  sitting  up. 
"  It  will  be  regular  fun." 

"No,  it  won't,"  said  Emma  McChesney; 
"  not  after  the  first  three  or  four  days.  But  it 
will  be  worth  more  to  you  than  a  foreign  tour 
and  a  private  tutor." 

She  came  over  to  him  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "  Your  room's  just  next  to 
mine,"  she  said.  "  You  and  I  are  going  to 
sleep  on  this.  To-morrow  we'll  have  a  real  day 
of  it,  as  I  promised.  If  you  want  to  spend  it 
with  the  fellows,  say  so.  I'm  not  going  to  spoil 
this  little  lark  that  I  promised  you." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  boy,  looking  up  into  his 
mother's  face,  "  I  think  that  I'll  spend  it  with 
you." 

The  door  slammed  after  him. 

[75] 


CHICKENS 

Emma  McChesney  remained  standing  there, 
in  the  center  of  the  room.  She  raised  her  arms 
and  passed  a  hand  over  her  forehead  and  across 
her  hair  until  it  rested  on  the  glossy  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  head.  It  was  the  weary  little  ges- 
ture of  a  weary,  heart-sick  woman. 

There  came  a  ring  at  the  'phone. 

Emma  McChesney  crossed  the  room  and 
picked  up  the  receiver. 

"  Hello,  Mary  Cutting,"  she  said,  without 
waiting  for  the  voice  at  the  other  end. 
"  What?  Oh,  I  just  knew.  No,  it's  all  right. 
I've  had  some  high-class  little  theatricals  of  my 
own,  right  here,  with  me  in  the  roles  of  leading 
lady,  ingenue,  villainess,  star,  and  heavy  mother. 
I've  got  Mrs.  Fiske  looking  like  a  First  Reader 
Room  kid  that's  forgotten  her  Friday  piece. 
What's  that?" 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  hol- 
low cackle  of  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the 
wire,  many  miles  away. 

Then:  "Oh,  that's  all  right,  Mary  Cutting. 
I  owe  you  a  great  big  debt  of  gratitude,  bless 
your  pink  cheeks  and  white  hair !  And,  Mary," 
she  lowered  her  voice  and  glanced  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  room  next  door,  "  I  don't  know  how 

[76] 


CHICKENS 

a  hard,  dry  sob  would  go  through  the  'phone, 
so  I  won't  try  to  get  it  over.  But,  Mary,  it's 
been  *  sugar,  butter,  and  molasses  '  for  me  for 
the  last  ten  minutes,  and  I'm  dead  scared  to  stop 
for  fear  I'll  forget  it.  I  guess  it's  *  sugar,  but- 
ter, and  molasses '  for  me  for  the  rest  of  the 
night,  Mary  Cutting;  just  as  hard  and  fast  as 
I  can  say  it,  *  sugar,  butter,  molasses.'  " 


[77] 


IV 
HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

"C*  ULL?  "  repeated  Emma  McChesney  (and 
if  it  weren't  for  the  compositor  there'd 
be  an  exclamation  point  after  that  question 
mark) . 

"  Sorry,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  said  the  clerk, 
and  he  actually  looked  it,  "  but  there's  abso- 
lutely nothing  stirring.  We're  full  up.  The 
Benevolent  Brotherhood  of  Bisons  is  holding 
its  regular  annual  state  convention  here. 
We're  putting  up  cots  in  the  hall." 

Emma  McChesney's  keen  blue  eyes  glanced 
up  from  their  inspection  of  the  little  bunch  of 
mail  which  had  just  been  handed  her.  "  Well, 
pick  out  a  hall  witK  £  southern  exposure  and 
set  up  a  cot  or  so  for  me,"  she  said,  agreeably, 
"  because  I've  come  to  stay.  After  selling 
Featherloom  Petticoats  on  the  road  for  ten  years 
I  don't  see  myself  trailing  up  and  down  this 
town  looking  for  a  place  to  lay  my  head.  I've 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

learned  this  one  large,  immovable  truth,  and 
that  is,  that  a  hotel  clerk  is  a  hotel  clerk.  It 
makes  no  difference  whether  he  is  stuck  back 
of  a  marble  pillar  and  hidden  by  a  gold  vase 
full  of  thirty-six-inch  American  Beauty  roses  at 
the  Knickerbocker,  or  setting  the  late  fall  fash- 
ions for  men  in  Galesburg,  Illinois." 

By  one  small  degree  was  the  perfect  poise 
of  the  peerless  personage  behind  the  register 
jarred.  But  by  only  one.  He  was  a  hotel 
night  clerk. 

"  It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  get  sore,  Mrs. 
McChesney,"  he  began,  suavely.  "  Now  a 
man  would — " 

"  But  I'm  not  a  man,"  interrupted  Emma 
McChesney.  "  I'm  only  doing  a  man's  work 
and  earning  a  man's  salary  and  demanding  to 
be  treated  with  as  much  consideration  as  you'd 
show  a  man." 

The  personage  busied  himself  mightily  with 
a  pen,  and  a  blotter,  and  sundry  papers,  as 
is  the  manner  of  personages  when  annoyed. 
"I'd  like  to  accommodate  you;  I'd  like  to  do 


it." 


"  Cheer     up,"     said     Emma     McChesney, 
you're  going  to.     I  don't  mind  a  little  dis- 

[79] 


,     HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

comfort.  Though  I  want  to  mention  in  pass- 
ing that  if  there  are  any  lady  Bisons  present 
you  needn't  bank  on  doubling  me  up  with  them. 
I've  had  one  experience  of  that  kind.  It  was 
in  Albia,  Iowa.  I'd  sleep  in  the  kitchen  range 
before  I'd  go  through  another." 

Up  went  the  erstwhile  falling  poise. 
'  You're  badly  mistaken,  madam.  I'm  a  mem- 
ber of  this  order  myself,  and  a  finer  lot  of  fel- 
lows it  has  never  been  my  pleasure  to  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  drawled  Emma  McChes- 
ney.  "  Do  you  know,  the  thing  that  gets  me 
is  the  inconsistency  of  it.  Along  come  a  lot  of 
boobs  who  never  use  a  hotel  the  year  around 
except  to  loaf  in  the  lobby,  and  wear  out  the 
leather  chairs,  and  use  up  the  matches  and 
toothpicks  and  get  the  baseball  returns,  and 
immediately  you  turn  away  a  traveling  man 
who  uses  a  three-dollar-a-day  room,  with  a  sam- 
ple room  downstairs  for  his  stuff,  who  tips 
every  porter  and  bell-boy  in  the  place,  asks  for 
no  favors,  and  who,  if  you  give  him  a  half-way 
decent  cup  of  coffee  for  breakfast,  will  fall  in 
love  with  the  place  and  boom  it  all  over  the 
country.  Half  of  your  Benevolent  Bisons  are 
here  on  the  European  plan,  with  a  view  to  pat- 
[80] 


"  'Son !'  echoed  the  clerk,  staring"— Page  83 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

ronizing  the  free-lunch  counters  or  being  asked 
to  take  dinner  at  the  home  of  some  local  Bison 
whose  wife  has  been  cooking  up  on  pies,  and 
chicken  salad  and  veal  roast  for  the  last  week." 

Emma  McChesney  leaned  over  the  desk  a 
little,  and  lowered  her  voice  to  the  tone  of  con- 
fidence. "  Now,  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing a  nuisance  of  myself  like  this.  I  don't  get 
so  chatty  as  a  rule,  and  I  know  that  I  could 
jump  over  to  Monmouth  and  get  first-class  ac- 
commodations there.  But  just  this  once  I've  a 
good  reason  for  wanting  to  make  you  and  my- 
self a  little  miserable.  Y'see,  my  son  is  travel- 
ing with  me  this  trip." 

"  Son !  "  echoed  the  clerk,  staring. 

"  Thanks.  That's  what  they  all  do.  After 
a  while  I'll 'begin  to  believe  that  there  must  be 
something  hauntingly  beautiful  and  girlish  about 
me  or  every  one  wouldn't  petrify  when  I  an- 
nounce that  I've  a  six-foot  son  attached  to  my 
apron-strings.  He  looks  twenty-one,  but  he's 
seventeen.  He  thinks  the  world's  rotten  be- 
cause he  can't  grow  one  of  those  fuzzy  little 
mustaches  that  the  men  are  cultivating  to  match 
their  hats.  He's  down  at  the  depot  now, 
straightening  out  our  baggage.  Now  I  want 

[83] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

to  say  this  before  he  gets  here.  He's  been  out 
with  me  just  four  days.  Those  four  days  have 
been  a  revelation,  an  eye-opener,  and  a  series 
of  rude  jolts.  He  used  to  think  that  his 
mother's  job  consisted  of  traveling  in  Pullmans, 
eating  delicate  viands  turned  out  by  the  hotel 
chefs,  and  strewing  Featherloom  Petticoats 
along  the  path.  I  gave  him  plenty  of  money, 
and  he  got  into  the  habit  of  looking  lightly 
upon  anything  more  trifling  than  a  five-dollar 
bill.  He's  changing  his  mind  by  great  leaps. 
I'm  prepared  to  spend  the  night  in  the  coal  cel- 
lar if  you'll  just  fix  him  up  —  not  too  comfort- 
ably. It'll  be  a  great  lesson  for  him.  There 
he  is  now.  Just  coming  in.  Fuzzy  coat  and 
hat  and  English  stick.  Hist!  As  they  say  on 
the  stage." 

The  boy  crossed  the  crowded  lobby.  There 
was  a  little  worried,  annoyed  frown  between 
his  eyes.  He  laid  a  protecting  hand  on  his 
mother's  arm.  Emma  McChesney  was  con- 
scious of  a  little  thrill  of  pride  as  she  realized 
that  he  did  not  have  to  look  up  to  meet  her 
gaze. 

"  Look  here,  Mother,  they  tell  me  there's 
some  sort  of  a  convention  here,  and  the  town's 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

packed.  That's  what  all  those  banners  and 
things  were  for.  I  hope  they've  got  some- 
thing decent  for  us  here.  I  came  up  with  a 
man  who  said  he  didn't  think  there  was  a  hole 
left  to  sleep  in." 

"  You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney,  and  turned  to  the  clerk.  "  This  is 
my  son,  Jock  McChesney  —  Mr.  Sims.  Is 
this  true?  " 

"  Glad  to  know  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sims. 
"  Why,  yes,  I'm  afraid  we  are  pretty  well  filled 
up,  but  seeing  it's  you  maybe  we  can  do  some- 
thing for  you." 

He  ruminated,  tapping  his  teeth  with  a  pen- 
holder, and  eying  the  pair  before  him  with  a 
maddening  blankness  of  gaze.  Finally: 

"I'll  do  my  best,  but  you  can't  expect  much. 
I  guess  I  can  squeeze  another  cot  into  eighty- 
seven  for  the  young  man.  There's  —  let's  see 
now  —  who's  in  eighty-seven?  Well,  there's 
two  Bisons  in  the  double  bed,  and  one  in  the  sin- 
gle, and  Fat  Ed  Meyers  in  the  cot  and — " 

Emma  McChesney  stiffened  into  acute  atten- 
tion. "  Meyers?  "  she  interrupted.  "  Do  you 
mean  Ed  Meyers  of  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt 
Company?  " 

[85] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

'  That's  so.  You  two  are  in  the  same  line, 
aren't  you?  He's  a  great  little  piano  player, 
Ed  is.  Ever  hear  him  play?  " 

"When  did  he  get  in?" 

"  Oh,  he  just  came  in  fifteen  minutes  ago  on 
the  Ashland  division.  He's  in  at  supper." 

"  Oh,"  said  Emma  McChesney.  The  two 
letters  breathed  relief. 

But  relief  had  no  place  in  the  voice,  or  on 
the  countenance  of  Jock  McChesney.  He 
bristled  with  belligerence.  "  This  cattle-car 
style  of  sleeping  don't  make  a  hit.  I  haven't 
had  a  decent  night's  rest  for  three  nights.  I 
never  could  sleep  on  a  sleeper.  Can't  you  fix 
us  up  better  than  that?  " 

"  Best  I  can  do." 

"  But  where's  mother  going?  I  see  you  ad- 
vertise '  three  large  and  commodious  steam- 
heated  sample  rooms  in  connection.'  I  suppose 
mother's  due  to  sleep  on  one  of  the  tables 
there." 

*  Jock,"  Emma  McChesney  reproved  him, 
"  Mr.  Sims  is  doing  us  a  great  favor.  There 
isn't  another  hotel  in  town  that  would  — " 

"  You're    right,    there    isn't,"    agreed    Mr. 
Sims.     "  I  guess  the  young  man  is  new  to  this 
[86] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

traveling  game.  As  I  said,  I'd  like  to  accom- 
modate you,  but —  Let's  see  now.  Tell  you 
what  I'll  do.  If  I  can  get  the  housekeeper  to 
go  over  and  sleep  in  the  maids'  quarters  just  for 
to-night,  you  can  use  her  room.  There  you 
are !  Of  course,  it's  over  the  kitchen,  and  there 
may  be  some  little  noise  early  in  the  morn- 
ing-" 

Emma  McChesney  raised  a  protesting  hand. 
"  Don't  mention  it.  Just  lead  me  thither. 
I'm  so  tired  I  could  sleep  in  an  excursion  spe- 
cial that  was  switching  at  Pittsburgh.  Jock, 
me  child,  we're  in  luck.  That's  twice  in  the 
same  place.  The  first  time  was  when  we  were 
inspired  to  eat  our  supper  on  the  diner  instead 
of  waiting  until  we  reached  here  to  take  the 
leftovers  from  the  Bisons'  grazing.  I  hope 
that  housekeeper  hasn't  a  picture  of  her  de- 
parted husband  dangling,  life-size,  on  the  wall 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  But  they  always  have. 
Good-night,  son.  Don't  let  the  Bisons  bite  you. 
I'll  be  up  at  seven." 

But  it  was  just  6:30  A.M.  when  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney turned  the  little  bend  in  the  stairway 
that  led  to  the  office.  The  scrub-woman  was 
still  in  possession.  The  cigar-counter  girl  had 

[8?] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

not  yet  made  her  appearance.  There  was 
.about  the  place  a  general  air  of  the  night  be- 
fore. All  but  the  night  clerk.  He  was  as 
spruce  and  trim,  and  alert  and  smooth-shaven 
:as  only  a  night  clerk  can  be  after  a  night's  vigil. 

"  'Morning!"  Emma  McChesney  called  to 
him.  She  wore  blue  serge,  and  a  smart  fall 
hat.  The  late  autumn  morning  was  not  crisper 
and  sunnier  than  she. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Sims,  sonorously.  "  Have  a  good 
night's  sleep?  I  hope  the  kitchen  noises  didn't 
wake  you." 

Emma  McChesney  paused  with  her  hand  on 
the  door.  "  Kitchen?  Oh,  no.  I  could  sleep 
through  a  vaudeville  china-juggling  act.  But 
—  what  an  extraordinarily  unpleasant-looking 
man  that  housekeeper's  husband  must  have 
been." 

That  November  morning  boasted  all  those 
qualities  which  November-morning  writers  are 
so  prone  to  bestow  upon  the  month.  But  the 
words  wine,  and  sparkle,  and  sting,  and  glow, 
and  snap  do  not  seem  to  cover  it.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney stood  on  the  bottom  step,  looking  up 
and  down  Main  Street  and  breathing  in  great 
[88] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

draughts  of  that  unadjectivable  air.  Her  com* 
plexion  stood  the  test  of  the  merciless,  astrin- 
gent morning  and  came  up  triumphantly  and 
healthily  firm  and  pink  and  smooth.  The  town 
was  still  asleep.  She  started  to  walk  briskly 
down  the  bare  and  ugly  Main  Street  of  the  lit- 
tle town.  In  her  big,  generous  heart,  and  her 
keen,  alert  mind,  there  were  many  sensations  and 
myriad  thoughts,  but  varied  and  diverse  as  they 
were  they  all  led  back  to  the  boy  up  there  in  the 
stuffy,  over-crowded  hotel  room  —  the  boy 
who  was  learning  his  lesson. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  reentered  the  hotel, 
her  cheeks  glowing.  Jock  was  not  yet  down. 
So  she  ordered  and  ate  her  wise  and  cautious 
breakfast  of  fruit  and  cereal  and  toast  and  cof- 
fee, skimming  over  her  morning  paper  as  she 
ate.  At  7  130  she  was  back  in  the  lobby,  news- 
paper in  hand.  The  Bisons  were  already  astir. 
She  seated  herself  in  a  deep  chair  in  a  quiet 
corner,  her  eyes  glancing  up  over  the  top  of  her 
paper  toward  the  stairway.  At  eight  o'clock 
Jock  McChesney  came  down. 

There  was  nothing  of  jauntiness  about  him. 
His  eyelids  were  red.  His  face  had  the  doughy 
look  of  one  whose  sleep  has  been  brief  and 

[89] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

feverish.  As  he  came  toward  his  mother  you 
noticed  a  stain  on  his  coat,  and  a  sunburst  of 
wrinkles  across  one  leg  of  his  modish  brown 
trousers. 

"  Good-morning,  son!  "  said  Emma  McChes- 
ney.  "  Was  it  as  bad  as  that?  " 

Jock  McChesney's  long  fingers  curled  into  a 
fist. 

"  Say,"  he  began,  his  tone  venomous,  "  do 
you  know  what  those  —  those  —  those  — " 

"Say  it!  "  commanded  Emma  McChesney. 
"  I'm  only  your  mother.  If  you  keep  that  in 
your  system  your  breakfast  will  curdle  in  your 
stomach." 

Jock  McChesney  said  it.  I  know  no  phrase 
better  fitted  to  describe  his  tone  than  that  old 
favorite  of  the  erotic  novelties.  It  was  vi- 
brant with  passion.  It  breathed  bitterness. 
It  sizzled  with  savagery.  It  —  Oh,  alliteration 
is  useless. 

"  Well,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  encourag- 
ingly, "  go  on." 

"Well!"  gulped  Jock  McChesney,  and 
glared;  "those  two  double-bedded,  bloomin', 
blasted  Bisons  came  in  at  twelve,  and  the  single 
one  about  fifteen  minutes  later.  They  didn't 

[90] 


"  'Well !'  gulped  Jock,  'those  two  double-bedded,  bloomin'  blasted 
Bisons — '  " — Page  pj 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

surprise  me.  There  was  a  herd  of  about  ninety- 
three  of  'em  in  the  hall,  all  saying  good-night  to 
each  other,  and  planning  where  they'd  meet  in 
the  morning,  and  the  time,  and  place  and  prob- 
able weather  conditions.  For  that  matter, 
there  were  droves  of  'em  pounding  up  and  down 
the  halls  all  night.  I  never  saw  such  restless 
cattle.  If  you'll  tell  me  what  makes  more  noise 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  than  the  metal  disk 
of  a  hotel  key  banging  and  clanging  up  against 
a  door,  I'd  like  to  know  what  it  is.  My  three 
Bisons  were  all  dolled  up  with  fool  ribbons  and 
badges  and  striped  paper  canes.  When  they 
switched  on  the  light  I  gave  a  crack  imitation 
of  a  tired  working  man  trying  to  get  a  little 
sleep.  I  breathed  regularly  and  heavily,  with 
an  occasional  moaning  snore.  But  if  those  two 
hippopotamus  Bisons  had  been  alone  on  their 
native  plains  they  couldn't  have  cared  less. 
They  bellowed,  and  pawed  the  earth,  and  threw 
their  shoes  around,  and  yawned,  and  stretched 
and  discussed  their  plans  for  the  next  day,  and 
reviewed  all  their  doings  of  that  day.  Then  one 
of  them  said  something  about  turning  in,  and  I 
was  so  happy  I  forgot  to  snore.  Just  then  an- 
other key  clanged  at  the  door,  in  walked  a  fat 

[93] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

man  in  a  brown  suit  and  a  brown  derby,  and 
stuff  was  off." 

"  That,'*  said  Emma  McChesney,  "  would 
be  Ed  Meyers,  of  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt 
^Company." 

"  None  other  than  our  hero."  Jock's  tone 
had  an  added  acidity.  "  It  took  those  four 
about  two  minutes  to  get  acquainted.  In  three 
minutes  they  had  told  their  real  names,  and  it 
turned  out  that  Meyers  belonged  to  an  organ- 
ization that  was  a  second  cousin  of  the  Bisons. 
In  five  minutes  they  had  got  together  a  deck 
and  a  pile  of  chips  and  were  shirt-sleeving  it 
around  a  game  of  pinochle.  I  would  doze  off 
to  the  slap  of  cards,  and  the  click  of  chips,  and 
wake  up  when  the  bell-boy  came  in  with  an- 
other round,  which  he  did  every  six  minutes. 
When  I  got  up  this  morning  I  found  that  Fat 
Ed  Meyers  had  been  sitting  on  the  chair  over 
which  I  trustingly  had  draped  my  trousers. 
This  sunburst  of  wrinkles  is  where  he  mostly 
sat.  This  spot  on  my  coat  is  where  a  Bison 
drank  his  beer." 

Emma  McChesney  folded  her  paper  and 
rose,  smiling.  "  It  is  sort  of  trying,  I  sup- 
pose, if  you're  not  used  to  it." 

[94] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

"Used  to  it!"  shouted  the  outraged  Jock. 
"  Used  to  it !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there's 
nothing  unusual  about — " 

"  Not  a  thing.  Oh,  of  course  you  don't 
strike  a  bunch  of  Bisons  every  day.  But  it 
happens  a  good  many  times.  The  world  is  full 
of  Ancient  Orders  and  they're  everlastingly  get- 
ting together  and  drawing  up  resolutions  and 
electing  officers.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better 
go  in  to  breakfast  before  the  Bisons  begin  to 
forage?  I've  had  mine." 

The  gloom  which  had  overspread  Jock  Mc- 
Chesney's  face  lifted  a  little.  The  hungry  boy 
in  him  was  uppermost.  '  That's  so.  I'm  go- 
ing to  have  some  wheat  cakes,  and  steak, 
and  eggs,  and  coffee,  and  fruit,  and  toast,  and 
rolls." 

"  Why  slight  the  fish?  "  inquired  his  mother. 
Then,  as  he  turned  toward  the  dining-room, 
"  I've  two  letters  to  get  out.  Then  I'm  going 
down  the  street  to  see  a  customer.  I'll  be  up 
at  the  Sulzberg-Stein  department  store  at  nine 
sharp.  There's  no  use  trying  to  see  old  Sulz- 
berg  before  ten,  but  I'll  be  there,  anyway,  and 
so  will  Ed  Meyers,  or  I'm  no  skirt  salesman. 
I  want  you  to  meet  me  there.  It  will  do  you 

[95] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

good  to  watch  how  the  overripe  orders  just 
drop,  ker-plunk,  into  my  lap." 

Maybe  you  know  Sulzberg  &  Stein's  big 
store?  No?  That's  because  youVe  always 
lived  in  the  city.  Old  Sulzberg  sends  his  buy- 
ers to  the  New  York  market  twice  a  year,  and 
they  need  two  floor  managers  on  the  main  floor 
now.  The  money  those  people  spend  for  red 
and  green  decorations  at  Christmas  time,  and 
apple-blossoms  and  pink  crepe  paper  shades  in 
the  spring,  must  be  something  awful.  Young 
Stein  goes  to  Chicago  to  have  his  clothes  made, 
and  old  Sulzberg  likes  to  keep  the  traveling 
men  waiting  in  the  little  ante-room  outside  his 
private  office. 

Jock  McChesney  finished  his  huge  breakfast, 
strolled  over  to  Sulzberg  &  Stein's,  and  inquired 
his  way  to  the  office  only  to  find  that  his  mother 
was  not  yet  there.  There  were  three  men  in 
the  little  waiting-room.  One  of  them  was  Fat 
Ed  Meyers.  His  huge  bulk  overflowed  the 
spindle-legged  chair  on  which  he  sat.  His 
brown  derby  was  in  his  hands.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  closed  door  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
So  were  the  eyes  of  the  other  two  travelers. 
Jock  took  a  vacant  seat  next  to  Fat  Ed  Meyers 

[96] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

so  that  he  might,  in  his  mind's  eye,  pick  out  a* 
particularly  choice  spot  upon  which  his  hard 
young  fist  might  land  —  if  only  he  had  the 
chance.  Breaking  up  a  man's  sleep  like  that, 
the  great  big  overgrown  mutt ! 

"What's  your  line?"  said  Ed  Meyers,  sud- 
denly turning  toward  Jock. 

Prompted  by  some  imp  — "  Skirts,"  an- 
swered Jock.  '/Ladies'  petticoats."  ("As  if 
men  ever  wore  'em!  "  he  giggled  inwardly.) 

Ed  Meyers  shifted  around  in  his  chair  so 
that  he  might  better  stare  at  this  new  foe  in  the 
field.  His  little  red  mouth  was  open  ludi- 
crously. 

"  Who're  you  out  for?"  he  demanded  next.. 

There  was  a  look  of  Emma  McChesney  on. 
Jock's  face.  "Why— er— the  Union  Un- 
derskirt and  Hosiery  Company  of  Chicago- 
New  concern." 

"  Must  be,"  ruminated  Ed  Meyers.  "  I 
never  heard  of  'em,  and  I  know  'em  all. 
You're  starting  in  young,  ain't  you,  kid!' 
Well,  it'll  never  hurt  you.  You'll  learn  some- 
thing new  every  day.  Now  me,  I  — " 

In  breezed  Emma  McChesney.  Her  quick 
glance  rested  immediately  upon  Meyers  and  the 

[97] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

boy.  And  in  that  moment  some  instinct 
prompted  Jock  McChesney  to  shake  his  head, 
ever  so  slightly,  and  assume  a  blankness  of  ex- 
pression. And  Emma  McChesney,  with  that 
shrewdness  which  had  made  her  one  of  the  best 
salesmen  on  the  road,  saw,  and  miraculously  un- 
derstood. 

"  How  do,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  grinned  Fat 
Ed  Meyers.  "  You  see  I  beat  you  to  it." 

"  So  I  see,"  smiled  Emma,  cheerfully.  "  I 
~was  delayed.  Just  sold  a  nice  little  bill  to  Wat- 
kins  down  the  street."  She  seated  herself 
across  the  way,  and  kept  her  eyes  on  that  closed 
door. 

"  Say,  kid,"  Meyers  began,  in  the  husky 
whisper  of  the  fat  man,  "  I'm  going  to  put  you 
wise  to  something,  seeing  you're  new  to  this 
game.  See  that  lady  over  there?"  He  nod- 
ded discreetly  in  Emma  McChesney's  direction. 

"  Pretty,  isn't  she?"  said  Jock,  apprecia- 
tively. 

"  Know  who  she  is?  " 

"  Well  —  I  —  she  does  look  familiar  but  — " 

"  Oh,  come  now,  quit  your  bluffing.  If 
you'd  ever  met  that  dame  you'd  remember  it. 
Her  name's  McChesney  —  Emma  McChes- 

[98] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

ney,  and  she  sells  T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom 
Petticoats.  I'll  give  her  her  dues;  she's  the 
best  little  salesman  on  the  road.  I'll  bet  that 
girl  could  sell  a  ruffled,  accordion-plaited  under- 
skirt to  a  fat  woman  who  was  trying  to  reduce. 
She's  got  the  darndest  way  with  her.  And  at 
that  she's  straight,  too." 

If  Ed  Meyers  had  not  been  gazing  so  in- 
tently into  his  hat,  trying  at  the  same  time  to 
look  cherubically  benign  he  might  have  seen  a 
quick  and  painful  scarlet  sweep  the  face  of  the 
boy,  coupled  with  a  certain  tense  look  of  the 
muscles  around  the  jaw. 

"  Well,  now,  look  here,"  he  went  on,  still  in 
a  whisper.  "  We're  both  skirt  men,  you  and 
me.  Everything's  fair  in  this  game.  Maybe 
you  don't  know  it,  but  when  there's  a  bunch  of 
the  boys  waiting  around  to  see  the  head  of  the 
store  like  this,  and  there  happens  to  be  a  lady 
traveler  in  the  crowd,  why,  it's  considered  kind 
of  a  professional  courtesy  to  let  the  lady  have 
the  first  look-in.  See?  It  ain't  so  often  that 
three  people  in  the  same  line  get  together  like 
this.  She  knows  it,  and  she's  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  her  chair,  waiting  to  bolt  when  that 
door  opens,  even  if  she  does  act  like  she  was 

[99] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

hanging  on  the  words  of  that  lady  clerk  there* 
The  minute  it  does  open  a  crack  she'll  jump  up 
and  give  me  a  fleeting,  grateful  smile,  and  sail 
in  and  cop  a  fat  order  away  from  the  old  man 
and  his  skirt  buyer.  I'm  wise.  Say,  he  may 
be  an  oyster,  but  he  knows  a  pretty  woman 
when  he  sees  one.  By  the  time  she's  through 
with  him  he'll  have  enough  petticoats  on  hand 
to  last  him  from  now  until  Turkey  goes  suffrage. 
Get  me?" 

"  I  get  you,"  answered  Jock. 

"  I  say,  this  is  business,  and  good  manners 
be  hanged.  When  a  woman  breaks  into  a 
man's  game  like  this,  let  her  take  her  chances 
like  a  man.  Ain't  that  straight?  " 

"  You've  said  something,"  agreed  Jock. 

"  Now,  look  here,  kid.  When  that  door 
opens  I  get  up.  See?  And  shoot  straight  for 
the  old  man's  office.  See?  Like  a  duck. 
See?  Say,  I  may  be  fat,  kid,  but  I'm  what  they 
call  light  on  my  feet,  and  when  I  see  an  order 
getting  away  from  me  I  can  be  so  fleet  that  I 
have  Diana  looking  like  old  Weston  doing  a 
stretch  of  muddy  country  road  in  a  coast  to 
coast  hike.  See?  Now  you  help  me  out  on 
this  and  I'll  see  that  you  don't  suffer  for  it. 
[100] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

I'll  stick  in  a  good  word  for  you,  believe  me. 
You  take  the  word  of  an  old  stager  like  me  and 
you  won't  go  far  — " 

The  door  opened.  Simultaneously  three 
figures  sprang  into  action.  Jock  had  the  seat 
nearest  the  door.  With  marvelous  clumsiness 
he  managed  to  place  himself  in  Ed  Meyers' 
path,  then  reddened,  began  an  apology,  stepped 
on  both  of  Ed's  feet,  jabbed  his  elbow  into  his 
stomach,  and  dropped  his  hat.  A  second  later 
the  door  of  old  Sulzberg's  private  office  closed 
upon  Emma  McChesney's  smart,  erect,  confi- 
dent figure. 

Now,  Ed  Meyers'  hands  were  peculiar  hands 
for  a  fat  man.  They  were  tapering,  slender, 
delicate,  blue-veined,  temperamental  hands. 
At  this  moment,  despite  his  purpling  face,  and 
his  staring  eyes,  they  were  the  most  noticeable 
thing  about  him  His  fingers  clawed  the  empty 
air,  quivering,  vibrant,  as  though  poised  to 
clutch  at  Jock's  throat. 

Then  words  came.  They  spluttered  from 
his  lips.  They  popped  like  corn  kernels  in  the 
heat  of  his  wrath;  they  tripped  over  each  other; 
they  exploded. 

"  You  darned  kid,  you !  "  he  began,  with  fas- 

[101] 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

cinating  fluency.  "  You  thousand-legged,  dou- 
ble-jointed, ox-footed  truck  horse.  Come  on 
out  of  here  and  I'll  lick  the  shine  off  your  shoes, 
you  blue-eyed  babe,  you!  What  did  you  get 
up  for,  huh?  What  did  you  think  this  was  go- 
ing to  be  —  a  flag  drill  ?  " 

With  a  whoop  of  pure  joy  Jock  McChesney 
turned  and  fled. 

They  dined  together  at  one  o'clock,  Emma 

McChesney  and  her  son  Jock.     Suddenly  Jock 

stopped  eating.     His   eyes  were  on  the   door. 

'  There's  that  fathead  now,"  he  said,  excitedly. 

"  The  nerve  of  him!     He's  coming  over  here." 

Ed  Meyers  was  waddling  toward  them  with 
the  quick  light  step  of  the  fat  man.  His  pink, 
full-jowled  face  was  glowing.  His  eyes  were 
bright  as  a  boy's.  He  stopped  at  their  table 
and  paused  for  one  dramatic  moment. 

"  So,  me  beauty,  you  two  were  in  cahoots, 
huh?  That's  the  second  low-down  deal  you've 
handed  me.  I  haven't  forgotten  that  trick  you 
turned  with  Nussbaum  at  DeKalb.  Never 
mind,  little  girl.  I'll  get  back  at  you  yet" 

He  nodded  a  contemptuous  head  in  Jock's  di- 
rection. "  Carrying  a  packer?" 

Emma  McChesney  wiped  her  fingers  dam- 
[102] 


^ 

1 


Jl 
31 

u 


r   5? 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

tily  on  her  napkin,  crushed  it  on  the  table,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "  Men,"  she  ob- 
served, wonderingly,  "  are  the  cussedest  crea- 
tures. This  chap  occupied  the  same  room  with 
you  last  night  and  you  don't  even  know  his 
name.  Funny!  If  two  strange  women  had 
found  themselves  occupying  the  same  room  for 
a  night  they  wouldn't  have  got  to  the  kimono 
and  back  hair  stage  before  they  would  not  only 
have  known  each  other's  name,  but  they'd  have 
tried  on  each  other's  hats,  swapped  corset  cover 
patterns,  found  mutual  friends  living  in  Dayton, 
Ohio,  taught  each  other  a  new  Irish  crochet 
stitch,  showed  their  family  photographs,  told 
how  their  married  sister's  little  girl  nearly  died 
with  swollen  glands,  and  divided  off  the  mirror 
into  two  sections  to  paste  their  newly  washed 
handkerchiefs  on.  Don't  tell  me  men  have  a 
genius  for  friendship." 

;t  Well,  who  is  he?"  insisted  Ed  Meyers. 
"  He  told  me  everything  but  his  name  this 
morning.  I  wish  I  had  throttled  him  with  a 
bunch  of  Bisons'  badges  last  night." 

"  His  name,"  smiled  Emma  McChesney,  "  is 
Jock  McChesney.  He's  my  one  and  only  son, 
and  he's  put  through  his  first  little  business  deal 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SON 

this  morning  just  to  show  his  mother  that  he 
can  be  a  help  to  his  folks  if  he  wants  to.  Now, 
Ed  Meyers,  if  you're  going  to  have  apoplexy 
don't  you  go  and  have  it  around  this  table.  My 
boy  is  only  on  his  second  piece  of  pie,  and  I 
won't  have  his  appetite  spoiled." 


[106] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

OOME  one  —  probably  one  of  those  French- 
men  whose  life  job  it  was  to  make  epigrams 
—  once  said  that  there  are  but  two  kinds  of 
women:  good  women,  and  bad  women.  Ever 
since  then  problem  playwrights  have  been 
putting  that  fiction  into  the  mouths  of  wronged 
husbands  and  building  their  "  big  scene  "  around 
it.  But  don't  you  believe  it.  There  are  four 
kinds :  good  women,  bad  women,  good  bad 
women,  and  bad  good  women.  And  the  worst 
of  these  is  the  last.  This  should  be  a  story  of 
all  four  kinds,  and  when  it  is  finished  I  defy  you 
to  discover  which  is  which. 

When  the  red  stuff  in  the  thermometer  waxes 
ambitious,  so  that  fat  men  stand,  bulging-eyed, 
before  it  and  beginning  with  the  ninety  mark 
count  up  with  a  horrible  satisfaction  —  ninety- 
one  —  ninety-two  —  ninety-three  —  NINETY- 
FOUR  !  by  gosh !  and  the  cinders  are  filtering 
[107] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

into  your  berth,  and  even  the  porter  is  wander- 
ing restlessly  up  and  down  the  aisle  like  a  black 
soul  in  purgatory  and  a  white  duck  coat,  then 
the  thing  to  do  is  to  don  those  mercifully  few 
garments  which  the  laxity  of  sleeping-car  eti- 
quette permits,  slip  out  between  the  green  cur- 
tains and  fare  forth  in  search  of  draughts,  liquid 
and  atmospheric. 

At  midnight  Emma  McChesney,  inured  as 
she  was  to  sleepers  and  all  their  horrors,  found 
her  lower  eight  unbearable.  With  the  bravery 
of  desperation  she  groped  about  for  her  cinder- 
strewn  belongings,  donned  slippers  and  kimono, 
waited  until  the  tortured  porter's  footsteps  had 
squeaked  their  way  to  the  far  end  of  the  car, 
then  sped  up  the  dim  aisle  toward  the  back 
platform.  She  wrenched  open  the  door,  felt 
the  rush  of  air,  drew  in  a  long,  grateful,  smoke- 
steam-dust  laden  lungful  of  it,  felt  the  breath 
of  it  on  spine  and  chest,  sneezed,  realized  that 
she  would  be  the  victim  of  a  summer  cold  next 
day,  and,  knowing,  cared  not. 

"  Great,  ain't  it?"  said  a  voice  in  the  dark- 
ness. (Nay,  reader.  A  woman's  voice.) 

Emma  McChesney  was  of  the  non-scream- 
ing type.  But  something  inside  of  her  sus- 
[108] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

pended  action  for  the  fraction  of  a  second.  She 
peered  into  the  darkness. 

"  T  get  scared?"  inquired  the  voice.  Its 
owner  lurched  forward  from  the  corner  in  which 
she  had  been  crouching,  into  the  half-light  cast 
by  the  vestibule  night-globe. 

Even  as  men  judge  one  another  by  a  Ma- 
sonic emblem,  an  Elk  pin,  or  the  band  of  a 
cigar,  so  do  women  in  sleeping-cars  weigh  each 
other  according  to  the  rules  of  the  Ancient  Or- 
der of  the  Kimono.  Seven  scenods  after  Emma 
McChesney  first  beheld  the  negligee  that  stood 
revealed  in  the  dim  light  she  had  its  wearer 
neatly  weighed,  marked,  listed,  docketed  and 
placed. 

It  was  the  kind  of  kimono  that  is  associated 
with  straw-colored  hair,  and  French-heeled 
shoes,  and  over-fed  dogs  at  the  end  of  a  leash. 
The  Japanese  are  wrongly  accused  of  having 
perpetrated  it.  In  pattern  it  showed  bright 
green  flowers-that-never-were  sprawling  on  a 
purple  background.  A  diamond  bar  fastened 
it  not  too  near  the  throat. 

It  was  one  of  Emma  McChesney's  boasts 
that  she  was  the  only  living  woman  who  could 
get  off  a  sleeper  at  Bay  City,  Michigan,  at  5 
[109] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

A.M.,  without  looking  like  a  Swedish  immigrant 
just  dumped  at  Ellis  Island.  Traveling  had 
become  a  science  with  her,  as  witness  her  serv- 
iceable dark-blue  silk  kimono,  and  her  hair  in 
a  schoolgirl  braid  down  her  back. 

The  blonde  woman  cast  upon  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  an  admiring  eye. 

"Gawd,  ain't  it  hot!  "  she  said,  sociably. 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  Emma  McChesney,  "  if 
that  porter  could  be  hypnotized  into  making 
some  lemonade  —  a  pitcherful,  with  a  lot  of  ice 
in  it,  and  the  cold  sweat  breaking  out  all  over 
the  glass?" 

"  Lemonade !  "  echoed  the  other,  wonder  and 
amusement  in  her  tone.  "  Are  they  still  usin' 
it? "  She  leaned  against  the  door,  swaying 
with  the  motion  of  the  car,  and  hugging  her 
plump,  bare  arms.  "  Travelin'  alone?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Emma  McChesney,  and 
decided  it  was  time  to  go  in. 

"Lonesome,  ain't  it,  without  company? 
Coin'  far?" 

"  I'm  accustomed  to  it.     I  travel  on  business, 
not  pleasure.     I'm  on  the  road,  representing  T. 
A,  Buck's  Featherloom  Petticoats!  " 
[no] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

The  once  handsome  violet  eyes  of  the  plump 
blonde  widened  with  surprise.  Then  they  nar- 
rowed to  critical  slits. 

"On  the  road!  Sellin'  goods!  And  I 
thought  you  was  only  a  kid.  It's  the  way  your 
hair's  fixed,  I  suppose.  Say,  that  must  be  a 
hard  life  for  a  woman  —  buttin'  into  a  man's 
game  like  that." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  any  work  that  takes  a  woman 
out  into  the  world — "  began  Emma  McChes- 
ney  vaguely,  her  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"  Sure,"  agreed  the  other.  "  I  ought  to 
know.  The  hotels  and  time-tables  alone  are 
enough  to  kill.  Who  do  you  suppose  makes  up 
train  schedules?  They  don't  seem  to  think  no- 
respectable  train  ought  to  leave  anywhere  be- 
fore eleven-fifty  P.M.,  or  arrive  after  six  A.M. 
We  played  Ottumwa,  Iowa,  last  night,  and  here 
we  are  jumpin'  to  Illinois." 

In  surprise  Emma  McChesney  turned  at  the 
door  for  another  look  at  the  hair,  figure,  com- 
plexion and  kimono. 

"  Oh,    you're    an    actress!     Well,     if    you 

think  mine  is  a  hard  life  for  a  woman,  why 

j» 

"  Me !  "    said   the    green-gold   blonde,    and 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

laughed  not  prettily.  "  I  ain't  a  woman.  I'm 
a  queen  of  burlesque." 

"Burlesque?  You  mean  one  of  those — " 
Emma  McChesney  stopped,  her  usually  deft 
tongue  floundering. 

"  One  of  those  {  men  only'  troupes?  You 
guessed  it.  I'm  Blanche  LeHaye,  of  the  Sam 
Levin  Crackerjack  Belles.  We  get  into  North 
Bend  at  six  to-morrow  morning,  and  we  play 
there  to-morrow  night,  Sunday."  She  took  a 
step  forward  so  that  her  haggard  face  and  ar- 
tificially tinted  hair  were  very  near  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney. "  Know  what  I  was  thinkin'  just  one 
second  before  you  come  out  here?  " 

"No;  what?" 

"  I  was  thinkin'  what  a  cinch  it  would  be  to 
just  push  aside  that  canvas  thing  there  by  the 
steps  and  try  what  the  newspaper  accounts  call 
*  jumping  into  the  night.'  Say,  if  I'd  had  on 
my  other  lawnjerie  I'll  bet  I'd  have  done  it." 

Into  Emma  McChesney's  understanding 
heart  there  swept  a  wave  of  pity.  But  she  an- 
swered lightly:  "  Is  that  supposed  to  be  funny?  " 

The  plump  blonde  yawned.  "  It  depends  on 
your  funny  bone.  Mine's  got  blunted.  I'm 
the  lady  that  the  Irish  comedy  guy  slaps  in  the 

[112] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

face  with  a  bunch  of  lettuce.  Say,  there's 
something  about  you  that  makes  a  person  get 
gabby  and  tell  things.  You'd  make  a  swell 
clairvoyant." 

Beneath  the  comedy  of  the  bleached  hair,  and 
the  flaccid  face,  and  the  bizarre  wrapper;  be- 
hind the  coarseness  and  vulgarity  and  ignorance, 
Emma  McChesney's  keen  mental  eye  saw  some- 
thing decent  and  clean  and  beautiful.  And 
something  pitiable,  and  something  tragic. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  come  in  and  get  some 
sleep,"  said  Emma  McChesney;  and  somehow 
found  her  hand  resting  on  the  woman's  shoul- 
der. So  they  stood,  on  the  swaying,  jolting 
platform.  Blanche  LeHaye,  of  the  Sam  Levin 
Crackerjack  Belles,  looked  down,  askance,  at 
the  hand  on  her  shoulder,  as  at  some  strange 
and  interesting  object.  , 

'  Ten  years  ago,"  she  said,  "  that  would 
have  started  me  telling  the  story  of  my  life, 
with  all  the  tremolo  stops  on,  and  the  orchestra 
in  tears.  Now  it  only  makes  me  mad." 

Emma  McChesney's  hand  seemed  to  snatch 
itself  away  from  the  woman's  shoulder. 

"  You  can't  treat  me  with  your  life's  history. 
I'm  going  in." 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Don't  go  away  sore,  kid. 
On  the  square,  I  guess  I  liked  the  feel  of  your 
hand  on  my  arm,  like  that.  Say,  I've  done  the 
same  thing  myself  to  a  strange  dog  that  looked 
up  at  me,  pitiful.  You  know,  the  way  you 
reach  down,  and  pat  'm  on  the  head,  and  say, 
4  Nice  doggie,  nice  doggie,  old  fellow,'  even  if 
it  is  a  street  cur,  with  a  chawed  ear,  and  no  tail. 
They  growl  and  show  their  teeth,  but  they  like 
it.  A  woman  —  Lordy !  there  comes  the 
brakeman.  Let's  beat  it.  Ain't  we  the  nervy 
old  hens !  " 

The  female  of  the  species  as  she  is  found  in 
sleeping-car  dressing-rooms  had  taught  Emma 
McChesney  to  rise  betimes  that  she  might  avoid 
contact  with  certain  frowsy,  shapeless  beings 
armed  with  bottles  of  milky  liquids,  and  boxes 
of  rosy  pastes,  and  pencils  that  made  arched 
and  inky  lines;  beings  redolent  of  bitter  almond, 
and  violet  toilette  water;  beings  in  doubtful 
corsets  and  green  silk  petticoats  perfect  as  to 
accordion-plaited  flounce,  but  showing  slits  and 
tatters  farther  up;  beings  jealously  guarding 
their  ten  inches  of  mirror  space  and  consenting 
to  move  for  no  one;  ladies  who  had  come  all  the 
way  from  Texas  and  who  insisted  on  telling 


'You  can't  treat  me  with  your  life's  history.    I'm  going  in'" 

—Page  113 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

about  it,  despite  a  mouthful  of  hairpins;  doubt- 
ful sisters  who  called  one  dearie  and  required 
to  be  hooked  up;  distracted  mothers  with  three 
small  children  who  wiped  their  hands  on  your 
shirt-waist. 

So  it  was  that  Emma  McChesney,  hatted  and 
veiled  by  5  145,  saw  the  curtains  of  the  berth 
opposite  rent  asunder  to  disclose  the  rumpled, 
shapeless  figure  of  Miss  Blanche  LeHaye.  The 
queen  of  burlesque  bore  in  her  arms  a  con- 
glomerate mass  of  shoes,  corset,  purple  skirt,  bag 
and  green-plumed  hat.  She  paused  to  stare  at 
Emma  McChesney's  trim,  cool  preparedness. 

"  You  must  have  started  to  dress  as  soon's 
you  come  in  last  night.  I  never  slep'  a  wink 
till  just  about  half  a  hour  ago.  I  bet  I  ain't 
got  more  than  eleven  minutes  to  dress  in.  Ain't 
this  a  scorcher!  " 

When  the  train  stopped  at  North  Bend, 
Emma  McChesney,  on  her  way  out,  collided 
with  a  vision  in  a  pongee  duster,  rose-colored 
chiffon  veil,  chamois  gloves,  and  plumed  hat. 
Miss  Blanche  LeHaye  had  made  the  most  of 
her  eleven  minutes.  Her  baggage  attended  to, 
Emma  McChesney  climbed  into  a  hotel  'bus.  It 
bore  no  other  passengers.  From  her  corner  in 

EH?] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

the  vehicle  she  could  see  the  queen  of  burlesque 
standing  in  the  center  of  the  depot  platform, 
surrounded  by  her  company.  It  was  a  tawdry, 
miserable,  almost  tragic  group,  the  men  under- 
sized, be-diamonded,  their  skulls  oddly  shaped, 
their  clothes  a  satire  on  the  fashions  for  men, 
their  chins  unshaven,  their  loose  lips  curved  con- 
tentedly over  cigarettes;  the  women  dreadfully 
unreal  with  the  pitiless  light  of  the  early  morn- 
ing sun  glaring  down  on  their  bedizened  faces, 
their  spotted,  garish  clothes,  their  run-down 
heels,  their  vivid  veils,  their  matted  hair. 
They  were  quarreling  among  themselves,  and  a 
flame  of  hate  for  the  moment  lighted  up  those 
dull,  stupid,  vicious  faces.  Blanche  LeHaye 
appeared  to  be  the  center  about  which  the  strife 
waged,  for  suddenly  she  flung  through  the  shrill 
group  and  walked  swiftly  over  to  the  'bus  and 
climbed  into  it  heavily.  One  of  the  women 
turned,  her  face  livid  beneath  the  paint,  to 
scream  a  great  oath  after  her.  The  'bus  driver 
climbed  into  his  seat  and  took  up  the  reins. 
After  a  moment's  indecision  the  little  group  on 
the  platform  turned  and  trailed  off  down  the 
street,  the  women  sagging  under  the  weight  of 
[118] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

their  bags,  the  men,  for  the  most  part,  hurry- 
ing on  ahead.  When  the  'bus  lurched  past 
them  the  woman  who  had  screamed  the  oath 
after  Blanche  LeHaye  laughed  shrilly  and  made 
a  face,  like  a  naughty  child,  whereupon  the 
others  laughed  in  falsetto  chorus. 

A  touch  of  real  color  showed  in  Blanche  Le- 
Haye's  flabby  cheek.  "I'll  show'm,"  she 
snarled.  "  I'll  show'm  I  ain't  no  dead  one  yet. 
That  hussy  of  a  Zella  Dacre  thinkin'  she  can 
get  my  part  away  from  me  when  I  ain't  lookin'. 
I  wised  she  was  gettin'  too  sweet  to  me  the  last 
week  or  so,  the  lyin'  sneak.  I'll  show'm  a 
leadin'  lady's  a  leadin'  lady.  Let  'em  go  to 
their  hash  hotels.  I'm  goin'  to  the  real  inn  in 
this  town  just  to  let  'em  know  that  I  got  my 
dignity  to  keep  up,  and  that  I  don't  have  to  mix 
in  with  scum  like  that.  You  see  that  there?  " 
She  pointed  at  something  in  the  street.  Emma 
McChesney  turney  to  look.  The  cheap  litho- 
graphs of  the  Sam  Levin  Crackerjack  Belles 
Company  glared  at  one  from  the  bill-boards. 

"  That's  our  paper,"  explained  Blanche  Le- 
Haye. "  That's  me,  in  the  center  of  the  bunch, 
with  the  pink  reins  in  my  hands,  drivin'  that 

[119] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

four-in-hand  of  Johnnies.  Hot  stuff !  Just  let 
Dacre  try  to  get  it  away  from  me,  that's  all.  I'll 
show'm." 

She  sank  back  into  her  corner.  Her  anger 
left  her  with  the  suddenness  characteristic  of 
her  type. 

"Ain't  this  heat  fierce ?"  she  fretted,  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

Now,  Emma  McChesney  was  a  broad- 
minded  woman  The  scars  that  she  had  re- 
ceived in  her  ten  years'  battle  with  business  re- 
minded her  to  be  tender  at  sight  of  the  wounds 
of  others.  But  now,  as  she  studied  the  woman 
huddled  there  in  the  corner,  she  was  conscious 
of  a  shuddering  disgust  of  her  —  of  the  soiled 
blouse,  of  the  cheap  finery,  of  the  sunken  places 
around  the  jaw-bone,  of  the  swollen  places  be- 
neath the  eyes,  of  the  thin,  carmined  lips,  of 
the- 

Blanche  LeHaye  opened  her  eyes  suddenly 
and  caught  the  look  on  Emma  McChesney's 
face.  Caught  it,  and  comprehended  it.  Her 
eyes  narrowed,  and  she  laughed  shortly. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,"  drawled  Blanche  LeHaye. 
"  I  wouldn't  go's  far's  that,  kid.  Say,  when  I 
was  your  age  I  didn't  plan  to  be  no  bum  buries- 

[120] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

quer  neither.  I  was  going  to  be  an  actress,  with 
a  farm  on  Long  Island,  like  the  rest  of  'em. 
Every  real  actress  has  got  a  farm  on  Long 
Island,  if  it's  only  there  in  the  mind  of  the 
press  agent.  It's  a  kind  of  a  religion  with  'em. 
I  was  goin'  to  build  a  house  on  mine  that  was 
goin'  to  be  a  cross  between  a  California  bunga- 
low and  the  Horticultural  Building  at  the 
World's  Fair.  Say,  I  ain't  the  worst,  kid. 
There's  others  outside  of  my  smear,  understand, 
that  I  wouldn't  change  places  with." 

A  dozen  apologies  surged  to  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  lips  just  as  the  driver  drew  up  at  the  curb- 
ing outside  the  hotel  and  jumped  down  to  open 
the  door.  She  found  herself  hoping  that  the 
hotel  clerk  would  not  class  her  with  her  com- 
panion. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  morning  Emma  Me- 
Chesney  unlocked  her  door  and  walked  down 
the  red-carpeted  hotel  corridor.  She  had  had 
two  hours  of  restful  sleep.  She  had  bathed,  and 
breakfasted,  and  donned  clean  clothes.  She 
had  brushed  the  cinders  out  of  her  hair,  and 
manicured.  She  felt  as  alert,  and  cool  and  re- 
freshed  as  she  looked,  which  speaks  well  for  her 
comfort. 

[121] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

Halfway  down  the  hall  a  bedroom  door  stood 
open.  Emma  McChesney  glanced  in.  What 
she  saw  made  her  stop.  The  next  moment  she 
would  have  hurried  on,  but  the  figure  within 
called  out  to  her. 

Miss  Blanche  LeHaye  had  got  into  her  ki- 
mono again.  She  was  slumped  in  a  dejected 
heap  in  a  chair  before  the  window.  There  was 
a  tray,  with  a  bottle  and  some  glasses  on  the 
table  by  her  side. 

"  Gawd,  ain't  it  hot!  "  she  whined  miserably. 
"  Come  on  in  a  minute.  I  left  the  door  open 
to  catch  the  breeze,  but  there  ain't  any.  You 
look  like  a  peach  just  off  the  ice.  Got  a  gent 
friend  in  town?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Emma  McChesney  hur- 
riedly, and  turned  to  go. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Blanche  LeHaye, 
sharply,  and  rose.  She  slouched  over  to  where 
Emma  McChesney  stood  and  looked  up  at  her 
sullenly. 

"  Why !  "  gasped  Emma  McChesney,  and 
involuntarily  put  out  her  hand,  "  why  —  my 
dear  —  youVe  been  crying !  Is  there  — " 

"  No,  there  ain't.     I  can  bawl,  can't  I,  if  I 
.am   a   bum  burlesquer?"     She  put  down  the 
[122] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

squat  little  glass  she  had  in  her  hand  and  stared 
resentfully  at  Emma  McChesney's  cool,  fra- 
grant freshness. 

"  Say,"  she  demanded  suddenly,  "  whatja 
mean  by  lookin'  at  me  the  way  you  did  this 
morning,  h'm?  Whatja  mean?  You  got  a 
nerve  turnin'  up  your  nose  at  me,  you  have. 
I'll  just  bet  you  ain't  no  better  than  you  might 
be,  neither.  What  the  — " 

Swiftly  Emma  McChesney  crossed  the  room 
and  closed  the  door.  Then  she  came  back  ta 
where  Blanche  LeHaye  stood. 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "  You  shed 
that  purple  kimono  of  yours  and  hustle  into  some 
clothes  and  come  along  with  me.  I  mean  it. 
Whenever  I'm  anywhere  near  this  town  I  make 
a  jump  and  Sunday  here.  I've  a  friend  here 
named  Morrissey  —  Ethel  Morrissey  —  and 
she's  the  biggest-hearted,  most  understanding 
friend  that  a  woman  ever  had.  She's  skirt  and 
suit  buyer  at  Barker  &  Fisk's  here.  I  have  a 
standing  invitation  to  spend  Sunday  at  her 
house.  She  knows  I'm  coming.  I  help  get  din- 
ner if  I  feel  like  it,  and  wash  my  hair  if  I  want 
to,  and  sit  out  in  the  back  yard,  and  fool  with  the 
dog,  and  act  like  a  human  being  for  one  day. 
[123] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

After  you've  been  on  the  road  for  ten  years  a 
real  Sunday  dinner  in  a  real  home  has  got 
Sherry's  flossiest  efforts  looking  like  a  picnic  col- 
lation with  ants  in  the  pie.  You're  coming 
with  me,  more  for  my  sake  than  for  yours,  be- 
cause the  thought  of  you  sitting  here,  like  this, 
would  sour  the  day  for  me." 

Blanche  LeHaye's  fingers  were  picking  at  the 
pin  which  fastened  her  gown.  She  smiled,  un- 
certainly. 

"  What's  your  game?  "  she  inquired. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you  downstairs,"  said  Emma 
McChesney,  pleasantly.  "  Do  you  ever  have 
any  luck  with  caramel  icing?  Ethel's  and  mine 
always  curdles." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  yelled  the  queen  of  burlesque.  "  I 
invented  it."  And  she  was  down  on  her  knees, 
her  fingers  fumbling  with  the  lock  of  her  suit- 
case. 

Only  an  Ethel  Morrissey,  inured  to  the  weird 
workings  of  humanity  by  years  of  shrewd  skirt 
and  suit  buying,  could  have  stood  the  test  of 
having  a  Blanche  LeHaye  thrust  upon  her,  an 
unexpected  guest,  and  with  the  woman  across 
the  street  sitting  on  her  front  porch  taking  it 
all  in. 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

At  the  door — "  This  is  Miss  Blanche  Le- 
Haye  of  the  —  er  —  Simon  — " 

"  Sam  Levin  Crackerjack  Belles, "  put  in  Miss 
LeHaye.  "  Pleased  to  meet  you." 

"  Come  in,"  said  Miss  Ethel  Morrissey, 
without  batting  an  eye.  "  I  just  'phoned  the 
hotel.  Thought  you'd  gone  back  on  me,  Emma. 
I'm  baking  a  caramel  cake.  Don't  slam  the 
door.  This  your  first  visit  here,  Miss  LeHaye? 
Excuse  me  for  not  shaking  hands.  I'm  all 
flour.  Lay  your  things  in  there.  Ma's  spend- 
ing the  day  with  Aunt  Gus  at  Forest  City  and 
I'm  the  whole  works  around  here.  It's  got 
skirts  and  suits  beat  a  mile.  Hot,  ain't  it? 
Say,  suppose  you  girls  slip  off  your  waists  and 
I'll  give  you  each  an  all-over  apron  that's  loose 
and  let's  the  breeze  slide  around." 

Blanche  LeHaye,  the  garrulous,  was- 
strangely  silent.  When  she  stepped  about  it 
was  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is  fearful  of 
wakening  a  sleeper.  When  she  caught  the  eyes 
of  either  of  the  other  women  her  own  glance 
dropped. 

When  Ethel  Morrissey  came  in  with  the 
blue-and-white  gingham  aprons  Blanche  Le- 
Haye hesitated  a  long  minute  before  picking 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

hers  up.  Then  she  held  it  by  both  sleeves  and 
looked  at  it  long,  and  curiously.  When  she 
looked  up  again  she  found  the  eyes  of  the  other 
two  upon  her.  She  slipped  the  apron  over  her 
head  with  a  nervous  little  laugh. 

"  I've  been  a  pair  of  pink  tights  so  long," 
she  said,  "  that  I  guess  I've  almost  forgotten 
-how  to  be  a  woman.  But  once  I  get  this  on 
I'll  bet  I  can  come  back." 

She  proved  it  from  the  moment  that  she 
measured  out  the  first  cupful  of  brown  sugar  for 
the  caramel  icing.  She  shed  her  rings,  and 
pinned  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead,  and 
tucked  up  her  sleeves,  and  as  Emma  McChes- 
ney  watched  her  a  resolve  grew  in  her  mind. 

The  cake  disposed  of  — "  Give  me  some  po- 
tatoes to  peel,  will  you?  "  said  Blanche  LeHaye, 
.suddenly.  "  Give  'em  to  me  in  a  brown  crock, 
with  a  chip  out  of  the  side.  There's  certain 
things  always  goes  hand-in-hand  in  your  mind. 
You  can't  think  of  one  without  the  other.  Now, 
Lillian  Russell  and  cold  cream  is  one;  and  new 
potatoes  and  brown  crocks  is  another." 

She  peeled  potatoes,  sitting  hunched  up  on 
the  kitchen  chair  with  her  high  heels  caught 
back  of  the  top  rung.  She  chopped  spinach  un- 


"  'Now,  Lillian  Russell  and  cold  cream  is  one ;  and  new  potatoes 
and  brown  crocks  is  another' " — Page  126 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

til  her  face  was  scarlet,  and  her  hair  hung  in 
limp  strands  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  She 
skinned  tomatoes.  She  scoured  pans.  She 
wiped  up  the  white  oilcloth  table-top  with  a 
capable  and  soapy  hand.  The  heat  and  bustle 
of  the  little  kitchen  seemed  to  work  some  miracu- 
lous change  in  her.  Her  eyes  brightened.  Her 
lips  smiled.  Once,  Emma  McChesney  and 
Ethel  Morrissey  exchanged  covert  looks  when 
they  heard  her  crooning  one  of  those  tuneless 
chants  that  women  hum  when  they  wring  out 
dishcloths  in  soapy  water. 

After  dinner,  in  the  cool  of  the  sitting-room, 
with  the  shades  drawn,  and  their  skirts  tucked 
halfway  to  their  knees,  things  looked  propitious 
for  that  first  stroke  in  the  plan  which  had 
worked  itself  out  in  Emma  McChesney's  alert 
mind.  She  caught  Blanche  LeHaye's  eye,  and 
smiled. 

"  This  beats  burlesquing,  doesn't  it?"  she 
said.  She  leaned  forward  a  bit  in  her  chair. 
"  Tell  me,  Miss  LeHaye,  haven't  you  ever 
thought  of  quitting  that  —  the  stage  —  and 
turning  to  something  —  something  — " 

"Something  decent?"  Blanche  LeHaye  fin- 
ished for  her.  "  I  used  to.  I've  got  over  that. 
[129] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

Now  all  I  ask  is  to  get  a  laugh  when  I  kick  the 
comedian's  hat  off  with  my  toe." 

"  But  there  must  have  been  a  time  — "  insinu- 
ated Emma  McChesney,  gently. 

Blanche  LeHaye  grinned  broadly  at  the  two 
women  who  were  watching  her  so  intently. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  began, 
"  that  I  never  was  a  minister's  daughter,  and  I 
don't  remember  ever  havin'  been  deserted  by 
my  sweetheart  when  I  was  young  and  trusting. 
If  I  was  to  draw  a  picture  of  my  life  it  would 
look  like  one  of  those  charts  that  the  weather 
bureau  gets  out  —  one  of  those  high  and  low 
barometer  things,  all  uphill  and  downhill  like  a 
chain  of  mountains  in  a  kid's  geography." 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  lay  back  in  the  depths 
of  the  leather-cushioned  chair.  The  three  sat 
in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  sud- 
denly, rising  and  coming  over  to  the  woman  in 
the  big  chair,  "  that's  not  the  life  for  a  woman 
like  you.  I  can  get  you  a  place  in  our  office  — 
not  much,  perhaps,  but  something  decent  — 
something  to  start  with.  If  you — " 

"  For  that  matter,"  put  in  Ethel  Morrissey, 
quickly,  "  I  could  get  you  something  right  here 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

in  our  store.  I've  been  there  long  enough  to 
have  some  say-so,  and  if  I  recommend  you  they'd 
start  you  in  the  basement  at  first,  and  then,  if 
you  made  good,  they  advance  you  right  along.'' 

Blanche  LeHaye  stood  up  and,  twisting  her 
arm  around  at  the  back,  began  to  unbutton  her 
gingham  apron. 

"  I  guess  you  think  I'm  a  bad  one,  don't  you? 
Well,  maybe  I  am.  But  I'm  not  the  worst. 
I've  got  a  brother.  He  lives  out  West,  and  he's 
rich,  and  married,  and  respectable.  You  know 
the  way  a  man  can  climb  out  of  the  mud,  while 
a  woman  just  can't  wade  out  of  it?  Well,  that's 
the  way  it  was  with  us.  His  wife's  a  regular 
society  bug.  She  wouldn't  admit  that  there 
was  any  such  truck  as  me,  unless,  maybe,  the 
Municipal  Protective  League,  or  something,  of 
her  town,  got  to  waging  a  war  against  burlesque 
shows.  I  hadn't  seen  Len  —  that's  my  brother 
—  in  years  and  years.  Then  one  night  in 
Omaha,  I  glimmed  him  sitting  down  in  the  B. 
H.  row.  His  face  just  seemed  to  rise  up  at  me 
out  of  the  audience.  He  recognized  me,  too. 
Say,  men  are  all  alike.  What  they  see  in  a 
dingy,  half-fed,  ignorant  bunch  like  us,  I  don't 
know.  But  the  minute  a  man  goes  to  Cleve- 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

land,  or  Pittsburgh,  or  somewhere  on  business 
he'll  hunt  up  a  burlesque  show,  and  what's  more, 
he'll  enjoy  it.  Funny.  Well,  Len  waited  for 
me  after  the  show,  and  we  had  a  talk.  He  told 
me  his  troubles,  and  I  told  him  some  of  mine, 
and  when  we  got  through  I  wouldn't  have 
swapped  with  him.  His  wife's  a  wonder.  She's 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  ladder  in  her  town. 
And  she's  pretty,  and  young-looking,  and  a  reg- 
ular swell.  Len  says  their  home  is  one  of  the 
kind  where  the  rubberneck  auto  stops  while  the 
spieler  tells  the  crowd  who  lives  there,  and  how 
he  made  his  money.  But  they  haven't  any  kids, 
Len  told  me.  He's  crazy  about  'em.  But  his 
wife  don't  want  any.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  Len's  face  when  he  was  talking  about  it." 

She  dropped  the  gingham  apron  in  a  circle 
at  her  feet,  and  stepped  out  of  it.  She  walked 
over  to  where  her  own  clothes  lay  in  a  gaudy 
heap. 

"  Exit  the  gingham.  But  it's  been  great." 
She  paused  before  slipping  her  skirt  over  her 
head.  The  silence  of  the  other  two  women 
seemed  to  anger  her  a  little. 

"  I  guess  you  think  I'm  a  bad  one,  clear 
through,  don't  you?  Well,  I  ain't.  I  don't 


"'Why,  girls,  I  couldn't  hold  down  a  job  in  a  candy  factory'" 

— Page  135 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

hurt  anybody  but  jnyself.  Len's  wife  —  that's 
what  I  call  bad." 

"  But  I  don't  think  you're  bad  clear  through," 
cried  Emma  McChesney.  "  I  don't.  That's 
why  I  made  that  proposition  to  you.  That's 
why  I  want  you  to  get  away  from  all  this,  and 
start  over  again." 

"  Me?  "  laughed  Blanche  LeHaye.  "  Me! 
In  a  office!  With  ledgers,  and  sale  bills,  and 
accounts,  and  all  that  stuff !  Why,  girls,  I 
couldn't  hold  down  a  job  in  a  candy  factory.  I 
ain't  got  any  intelligence.  I  never  had.  You 
don't  find  women  with  brains  in  a  burlesque 
troupe.  If  they  had  'em  they  wouldn't  be 
there.  Why,  we're  the  dumbest,  most  ignorant 
bunch  there  is.  Most  of  us  are  just  hired  girls, 
dressed  up.  That's  why  you  find  the  Woman's 
Uplift  Union  having  such  a  blamed  hard  time 
savin'  souls.  The  souls  they  try  to  save  know 
just  enough  to  be  wise  to  the  fact  that  they 
couldn't  hold  down  a  five-per-week  job.  Don't 
you  feel  sorry  for  me.  I'm  doing  the  only  thing 
I'm  good  for." 

Emma  McChesney  put  out  her  hand.  "  I'm 
sorry,"  she  said.  "  I  only  meant  it  for — " 

"Why,  of  course,"  agreed  Blanche  LeHaye, 

[135] 


PINK  TIGHTS  AND  GINGHAMS 

heartily.  "  And  you,  too."  She  turned  so 
that  her  broad,  good-natured  smile  included 
Ethel  Morrissey.  "  I've  had  a  whale  of  a 
time.  My  fingers  are  all  stained  up  with  new 
potatoes,  and  my  nails  is  full  of  strawberry 
juice,  and  I  hope  it  won't  come  off  for  a  week. 
And  I  want  to  thank  you  both.  I'd  like  to 
stay,  but  I'm  going  to  hump  over  to  the  thea- 
ter. That  Dacre's  got  the  nerve  to  swipe  the 
star's  dressing-room  if  I  don't  get  my  trunks  in 
first." 

They  walked  with  her  to  the  front  porch, 
making  talk  as  they  went.  Resentment  and  dis- 
comfiture and  a  sort  of  admiration  all  played 
across  the  faces  of  the  two  women,  whose  kind- 
ness had  met  with  rebuff.  At  the  foot  of  the 
steps  Blanche  LeHaye,  prima  donna  of  the  Sam 
Levin  Crackerjack  Belles  turned. 

11  Oh,  say,"  she  called.  "  I  almost  forgot. 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  if  you  wait  until  your 
caramel  is  off  the  stove,  and  then  add  your 
butter,  when  the  stuff's  hot,  but  not  boilin', 
it  won't  lump  so.  H'm?  Don't  mention  it." 


[136] 


VI 
SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

'T^HEY  may  differ  on  the  subjects  of  cigars,. 
•*•  samples,  hotels,  ball  teams  and  pinochle 
hands,  but  two  things  there  are  upon  which  they 
stand  united.  Every  member  of  that  fraternity 
which  is  condemned  to  a  hotel  bedroom,  or  a 
sleeper  berth  by  night,  and  chained  to  a  sample: 
case  by  day  agrees  in  this,  first:  That  it  isn't 
what  it  used  to  be.  Second:  If  only  they  could 
find  an  opening  for  a  nice,  paying  gents1  fur- 
nishing business  in  a  live  little  town  that  wasn't 
swamped  with  that  kind  of  thing  already  they'd 
buy  it  and  settle  down  like  a  white  man,  by 
George!  and  quit  this  peddling.  The  missus 
hates  it  anyhow;  and  the  kids  know  the  iceman, 
better  than  they  do  their  own  dad. 

On  the  morning  that  Mrs.  Emma  McChes- 
ney  (representing  T.  A.  Buck,  Featherloom 
Petticoats)  finished  her  talk  with  Miss  Hattie 
Stitch,  head  of  Kiser  &  Bloch's  skirt  and  suit  de- 

[137] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

partment,  she  found  herself  in  a  rare  mood. 
She  hated  her  job;  she  loathed  her  yellow  sam- 
ple cases;  she  longed  to  call  Miss  Stitch  a  green- 
eyed  cat;  and  she  wished  that  she  had  chosen 
some  easy  and  pleasant  way  of  earning  a  living, 
like  doing  plain  and  fancy  washing  and  ironing. 
Emma  McChesney  had  been  selling  Feather- 
loom  Petticoats  on  the  road  for  almost  ten  years, 
and  she  was  famed  throughout  her  territory  for 
her  sane  sunniness,  and  her  love  of  her  work. 
Which  speaks  badly  for  Miss  Hattie  Stitch. 

Miss  Hattie  Stitch  hated  Emma  McChesney 
with  all  the  hate  that  a  flat-chested,  thin-haired 
woman  has  for  one  who  can  wear  a  large  thirty- 
six  without  one  inch  of  alteration,  and  a  hat  that 
turns  sharply  away  from  the  face.  For  forty- 
six  weeks  in  the  year  Miss  Stitch  existed  in  Kiser 
&  Bloch's  store  at  River  Falls.  For  six  weeks, 
two  in  spring,  two  in  fall,  and  two  in  mid-win- 
ter, Hattie  lived  in  New  York,  with  a  capital 
i..  She  went  there  to  select  the  season's  newest 
models  (slightly  modified  for  River  Falls),  but 
incidentally  she  took  a  regular  trousseau  with 
her. 

All  day  long  Hattie  picked  skirt  and  suit 
models  with  unerring  good  taste  and  business 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

judgment.  At  night  she  was  a  creature  trans- 
formed. Every  house  of  which  Hattie  bought 
did  its  duty  like  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman. 
Nightly  Hattie  powdered  her  neck  and  arms, 
performed  sacred  rites  over  her  hair  and  nails, 
donned  a  gown  so  complicated  that  a  hotel  maid 
had  to  hook  her  up  the  back,  and  was  ready  for 
her  evening's  escort  at  eight.  There  wasn't  a 
hat  in  a  grill  room  from  one  end  of  the  Crooked 
Cow-path  to  the  other  that  was  more  wildly  bar- 
baric than  Hattie's,  even  in  these  sane  and  sim- 
ple days  when  the  bird  of  paradise  has  become 
the  national  bird.  The  buyer  of  suits  for  a 
thriving  department  store  in  a  hustling  little 
Mid  die- We  stern  town  isn't  to  be  neglected. 
Whenever  a  show  came  to  River  Falls •  Hattie 
would  look  bored,  pass  a  weary  hand  over  her 
glossy  coiffure  and  say:  "  Oh,  yes.  Clever  little 
show.  Saw  it  two  winters  ago  in  New  York. 
This  won't  be  the  original  company,  of  course.'* 
The  year  that  Hattie  came  back  wearing  a  set 
of  skunk  everyone  thought  it  was  lynx  until  Hat- 
tie  drew  attention  to  what  she  called  the  "  brown 
tone  "  in  it.  After  that  Old  Lady  Heinz  got 
her  old  skunk  furs  out  of  the  moth  balls  and 
tobacco  and  newspapers  that  had  preserved 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

them,  and  her  daughter  cut  them  up  into  bands 
for  the  bottom  of  her  skirt,  and  the  cuffs  of  her 
coat.  When  Kiser  &  Bloch  had  their  fall  and 
spring  openings  the  town  came  ostensibly  to 
see  the  new  styles,  but  really  to  gaze  at  Hattie 
in  a  new  confection,  undulating  up  and  down  the 
department,  talking  with  a  heavy  Eastern  ac- 
cent about  this  or  that  being  "  smart  "  or  "  good 
this  year,"  or  having  "  a  world  of  style,"  and 
sort  of  trailing  her  toes  after  her  to  give  a  cling- 
ing, Grecian  line,  like  pictures  of  Ethel  Barry- 
more  when  she  was  thin.  The  year  that  Hat- 
tie  confided  to  some  one  that  she  was  wearing 
only  scant  bloomers  beneath  her  slinky  silk  the 
floor  was  mobbed,  and  they  had  to  call  in  re- 
serves from  the  basement  ladies-and-misses- 
ready-to-wear. 

Miss  Stitch  came  to  New  York  in  March. 
On  the  evening  of  her  arrival  she  dined  with 
Fat  Ed  Meyers,  of  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt 
Company.  He  informed  her  that  she  looked 
like  a  kid,  and  that  that  was  some  classy  little 
gown,  and  it  wasn't  every  woman  who  could 
wear  that  kind  of  thing  and  get  away  with  it. 
It  took  a  certain  style.  Hattie  smiled,  and 
hummed  off-key  to  the  tune  the  orchestra  was 
[140] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

playing,  and  Ed  told  her  it  was  a  shame  she 
didn't  do  something  with  that  voice. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Hattie, 
"  Just  before  I  left  I  had  a  talk  with  old  Kiser. 
Or  rather,  he  had  a  talk  with  me.  You  know 
I  have  pretty  much  my  own  way  in  my  depart- 
ment. Pity  if  I  couldn't  have.  I  made  it. 
Well,  Kiser  wanted  to  know  why  I  didn't  buy 
Featherlooms.  I  said  we  had  no  call  for  'em, 
and  he  came  back  with  figures  to  prove  we're 
losing  a  good  many  hundreds  a  year  by  not 
carrying  them.  He  said  the  Strauss  Sans-silk 
skirt  isn't  what  it  used  to  be.  And  he's  right."' 

"  Oh,  say — "  objected  Ed  Meyers. 

"  It's  true,"  insisted  Hattie.  "  But  I  couldn't 
tell  him  that  I  didn't  buy  Featherlooms  because 
McChesney  made  me  tired.  Besides,  she  never 
entertains  me  when  I'm  in  New  York.  Not 
that  I'd  go  to  the  theater  in  the  evening  with 
a  woman,  because  I  wouldn't,  but —  Say,  lis- 
ten. Why  don't  you  make  a  play  for  her  job? 
As  long  as  I've  got  to  put  in  a  heavy  line  of 
Featherlooms  you  may  as  well  get  the  benefit  of 
it.  You  could  double  your  commissions.  I'll  bet 
that  woman  makes  her  I-don't  know-how-many 
thousands  a  year." 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

Ed  Meyers'  naturally  ruddy  complexion  took 
on  a  richer  tone,  and  he  dropped  his  fork  ha- 
stily. As  he  gazed  at  Miss  Stitch  his  glance  was 
not  more  than  half  flattering.  "  How  you 
women  do  love  each  other,  don't  you!  You 
don't.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  my  firm's  cut- 
ting down  its  road  force,  and  none  of  us  knows 
who's  going  to  be  beheaded  next.  But  —  well 
—  a  guy  wouldn't  want  to  take  a  job  away  from 
a  woman  —  especially  a  square  little  trick  like 
McChesney.  Of  course  she's  played  me  a 
couple  of  low-down  deals  and  I  promised  to  get 
back  at  her,  but  that's  business.  But  — " 

"  So's  this,"  interrupted  Miss  Hattie  Stitch. 
"  And  I  don't  know  that  she  is  so  square.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  I  heard  she's  no  better  than  she 
might  be.  I  have  it  on  good  authority  that 
three  weeks  ago,  at  the  River  House,  in  our 
town  — " 

Their  heads  came  close  together  over  the 
little,  rose-shaded  restaurant  t^ble. 

At  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  Fat  Ed  Mey- 
ers walked  into  the  office  of  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Featherloom  Petticoat  Company  and  asked  to 
see  old  T.  A. 

"  He's  in  Europe,"  a  stenographer  informed 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

him,  "  spaing,  and  sprudeling,  and  badening. 
Want  to  see  T.  A.  Junior?" 

"  T.  A.  Junior!  "  almost  shouted  Ed  Meyers.. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  fellow's  taken 
hold  — " 

"  Believe  me.  That's  why  Featherlooms 
are  soaring  and  Sans-silks  are  sinking.  No- 
body would  have  believed  it.  T.  A.  Junior's- 
got  a  live  wire  looking  like  a  stick  of  licorice. 
When  they  thought  old  T.  A.  was  going  to- 
die,  young  T.  A.  seemed  to  straighten  out  all 
of  a  sudden  and  take  hold.  It's  about  time. 
He  must  be  almost  forty,  but  he  don't  show 
it.  I  don't  know,  he  ain't  so  good-looking, 
but  he's  got  swell  eyes." 

Ed  Meyers  turned  the  knob  of  the  door 
marked  "  Private,"  and  entered,  smiling.  Ed 
Meyers  had  a  smile  so  cherubic  that  involun- 
tarily you  armed  yourself  against  it. 

"Hel-lo  Buck!"  he  called  jovially.  "I 
hear  that  at  last  you're  taking  an  interest  ia 
skirts  —  other  than  on  the  hoof."  And  he 
offered  young  T.  A.  a  large,  dark  cigar  witli 
a  fussy-looking  band  encircling  its  middle. 
Young  T.  A.  looked  at  it  disinterestedly,  and 
spake,  saying: 

[143] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

"What  are  you  after?" 

"  Why,  I  just  dropped  in  — "  began  Ed 
Meyers  lamely. 

"  The  dropping,"  observed  T.  A.  Junior, 
"  is  bad  around  here  this  morning.  I  have 
•one  little  formula  for  all  visitors  to-day,  re- 
gardless of  whether  they're  book  agents  or 
skirt  salesmen.  That  is,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

Ed  Meyers  tucked  his  cigar  neatly  into  the 
•extreme  right  corner  of  his  mouth,  pushed 
his  brown  derby  far  back  on  his  head,  rested 
his  strangely  lean  hands  on  his  plump  knees, 
and  fixed  T.  A.  Junior  with  a  shrewd  blue  eye. 

"  That  suits  me  fine,"  he  agreed.  "  I  never 
was  one  to  beat  around  the  bush.  Look  here. 
I  know  skirts  from  the  draw-string  to  the  ruffle. 
It's  a  woman's  garment,  but  a  man's  line. 
There's  fifty  reasons  why  a  woman  can't  handle 
it  like  a  man.  For  one  thing  the  packing  cases 
weigh  twenty-five  pounds  each,  and  she's  as  de- 
pendent on  a  packer  and  a  porter  as  a  baby 
is  on  its  mother.  Another  is  that  if  a  man  has 
to  get  up  to  make  a  train  at  4  A.M.  he  don't  re- 
quire twenty-five  minutes  to  fasten  down  three 
sets  of  garters,  and  braid  his  hair,  and  hook  his 
[i44] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

waist  up  the  back,  and  miss  his  train.  And  he 
don't  have  neuralgic  headaches.  Then,  the 
head  of  a  skirt  department  in  a  store  is  a 
woman,  ten  times  out  of  ten.  And  lemme  tell 
you,"  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  "  a  woman 
don't  like  to  buy  of  a  woman.  Don't  ask  me 
why.  I'm  too  modest.  But  it's  the  truth." 

"Well?  "  said  young  T.  A.,  with  the  rising 
inflection. 

"  Well,"  finished  Ed  Meyers,  "  I  like  your 
stuff.  I  think  it's  great.  It's  a  seller,  with 
the  right  man  to  push  it.  I'd  like  to  handle 
it.  And  I'll  guarantee  I  could  double  the  re- 
turns from  your  Middle-Western  territory." 

T.  A.  Junior  had  strangely  translucent  eyes. 
Their  luminous  quality  had  an  odd  effect  upon 
any  one  on  whom  he  happened  to  turn  them. 
He  had  been  scrawling  meaningless  curlycues 
on  a  piece  of  paper  as  Ed  Meyers  talked. 
Now  he  put  down  the  pencil,  turned,  and  looked 
Ed  Meyers  fairly  in  the  eye. 

"  You  mean  you  want  Mrs.  McChesney's 
territory?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"Well,  yes,  I  do,"  confessed  Ed  Meyers, 
without  a  blush. 

Young  T.  A.  swung  back  to  his  desk,  tore 

[145] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

from  the  pad  before  him  the  piece  of  paper 
on  which  he  had  been  scrawling,  crushed  it, 
and  tossed  it  into  the  wastebasket  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

'  Take  the  second  elevator  down,"  he  said. 
'*  The  nearest  one's  out  of  order." 

For  a  moment  Ed  Meyers  stared,  his  fat  face 
purpling.  "  Oh,  very  well,"  he  said,  rising. 
"  I  just  made  you  a  business  proposition,  that's 
all.  I  thought  I  was  talking  to  a  business  man. 
Now,  old  T.  A.—" 

"  That'll  be  about  all,"  observed  T.  A. 
Junior,  from  his  desk. 

Ed  Meyers  started  toward  the  door.  Then 
he  paused,  turned,  and  came  back  to  his  chair. 
His  heavy  jaw  jutted  out  threateningly. 

"  No,  it  ain't  all,  either.  I  didn't  want  to 
mention  it,  and  if  you'd  treated  me  like  a  gentle- 
man, I  wouldn't  have.  But  I  want  to  say  to 
you  that  McChesney's  giving  this  firm  a  black 
eye.  Morals  don't  figure  with  a  man  on  the 
road,  but  when  a  woman  breaks  into  this  game, 
she's  got  to  be  on  the  level." 

T.  A.  Junior  rose.  The  blonde  stenographer 
who  had  made  the  admiring  remark  anent  his 
eyes  would  have  appreciated  those  features  now. 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

They  glowed  luminously  into  Ed  Meyers'  pale 
blue  ones  until  that  gentleman  dropped  his  eye- 
lids in  confusion.  He  seemed  at  a  disadvan- 
tage in  every  way,  as  T.  A.  Junior's  lean,  grace- 
ful height  towered  over  the  fat  man's  bulk. 

"  I  don't  know  Mrs.  McChesney,"  said  T. 
A.  Junior.  "  I  haven't  even  seen  her  in  six 
years.  My  interest  in  the  business  is  very  re- 
cent. I  do  know  that  my  father  swears  she's 
the  best  salesman  he  has  on  the  road.  Be- 
fore you  go  any  further  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
you'll  have  to  prove  what  you  just  implied,  so 
definitely,  and  conclusively,  and  convincingly 
that  when  you  finish  you'll  have  an  ordinary  en- 
gineering blue-print  looking  like  a  Turner  land- 
scape. Begin." 

Ed  Meyers,  still  standing,  clutched  his  derby 
tightly  and  began. 

"She's  a  looker,  Emma  is.  And  smooth! 
As  the  top  of  your  desk.  But  she's  getting 
careless.  Now  a  decent,  hard-working,  straight 
girl  like  Miss  Hattie  Stitch,  of  Kiser  &  Bloch's, 
River  Falls,  won't  buy  of  her.  You'll  find  you 
don't  sell  that  firm.  And  they  buy  big,  too. 
Why,  last  summer  I  had  it  from  the  clerk  of 
the  hotel  in  that  town  that  she  ran  around  all 

[147] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

day  with  a  woman  named  LeHaye  —  Blanche 
LeHaye,  of  an  aggregation  of  bum  burlesquers 
called  the  Sam  Levin  Crackerjack  Belles.  And 
say,  for  a  whole  month  there,  she  had  a  tough 
young  kid  traveling  with  her  that  she  called  her 
son.  Oh,  she's  queering  your  line,  all  right. 
The  days  are  past  when  it  used  to  be  a  signal 
for  a  loud,  merry  laugh  if  you  mentioned  you 
were  selling  goods  on  the  road.  It's  a  fine  art, 
and  a  science  these  days,  and  the  name  of  T.  A. 
Buck  has  always  stood  for — " 

Downstairs  a  trim,  well-dressed,  attractive 
iwoman  stepped  into  the  elevator  and  smiled 
radiantly  upon  the  elevator  man,  who  had 
smiled  first. 

44  Hello,  Jake,"  she  said.  "  What's  old  in 
New  York?  I  haven't  been  here  in  three 
months.  It's  good  to  be  back." 

"  Seems  grand  t'  see  you,  Mis'  McChesney," 
returned  Jake.  "  Well,  nothin*  much  stirrin'. 
Whatcha  think  of  the  Grand  Central?  I  un- 
derstand they're  going  to  have  a  contrivance  so 
you  can  stand  on  a  mat  in  the  waiting-room  and 
wish  yourself  down  to  the  track  an'  train  that 
you're  leavin'  on.  The  G'ints  have  picked  a 
bunch  of  shines  this  season.  T.  A.  Junior's  got 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

a  new  sixty-power  auto.  Genevieve  —  that 
yella-headed  steno  —  was  married  last  month 
to  Henry,  the  shipping  clerk.  My  wife  pre- 
sented me  with  twin  girls  Monday.  Well, 
thank  you,  Mrs.  McChesney.  I  guess  that'll 
help  some." 

Emma  McChesney  swung  down  the  hall  and 
into  the  big,  bright  office.  She  paused  at  the 
head  bookkeeper's  desk.  The  head  bookkeeper 
was  a  woman.  Old  Man  Buck  had  learned 
something  about  the  faithfulness  of  women  em- 
ployees. The  head  bookkeeper  looked  up  and 
said  some  convincing  things. 

*  Thanks,"  said  Emma,  in  return.  "  It's 
mighty  good  to  be  here.  Is  it  true  that  skirts 
are  going  to  be  full  in  the  back?  How's  busi- 
ness? T.  A.  in?" 

"  Young  T.  A.  is.  But  I  think  he's  busy  just 
now.  You  know  T.  A.  Senior  isn't  back  yet. 
He  had  a  tight  squeeze,  I  guess.  Everybody's 
talking  about  the  way  young  T.  A.  took  hold. 
You  know  he  spent  years  running  around  Eu- 
rope, and  he  made  a  specialty  of  first  nights,  and 
first  editions,  and  French  cars  when  he  did  show 
up  here.  But  now !  He's  changed  the  adver- 
tising, and  designing,  and  cutting  departments 
[H9] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

around  here  until  there's  as  much  difference  be- 
tween this  place  now  and  the  place  it  was  three 
months  ago  as  there  is  between  a  hoop-skirt  and 
a  hobble.  He  designed  one  skirt —  Here, 
Miss  Kelly!  Just  go  in  and  get  one  of  those 
embroidery  flounce  models  for  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney.  How's  that?  Honestly,  I'd  wear  it  my- 
self." 

Emma  McChesney  held  the  garment  in  her 
two  hands  and  looked  it  over  critically.  Her 
eyes  narrowed  thoughtfully.  She  looked  up 
to  reply  when  the  door  of  T.  A.  Buck's  private 
office  opened,  and  Ed  Meyers  walked  briskly 
out.  Emma  McChesney  put  down  the  skirt 
and  crossed  the  office  so  that  she  and  he  met 
just  in  front  of  the  little  gate  that  formed  an 
entrance  along  the  railing. 

Ed  Meyers'  mouth  twisted  itself  into  a  smile. 
He  put  out  a  welcoming  hand. 

;<  Why,  hello,  stranger!  When  did  you 
drive  in?  How's  every  little  thing?  I'm 
darned  if  you  don't  grow  prettier  and  younger 
every  day  of  your  sweet  life." 

"  Quit  Sans-silks?"  inquired  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney briefly. 

"  Why  —  no.     But  I  was  just  telling  young 


'Honestly,  I'd  wear  it  myself !'  "—Page  150 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

T.  A.  in  there  that  if  I  could  only  find  a  nice,, 
paying  little  gents'  furnishing  business  in  a  live 
little  town  that  wasn't  swamped  with  that  kind 
of  thing  already  I'd  buy  it,  by  George!  I'm 
tired  of  this  peddling." 

"  Sing  that,"  said  Emma  McChesney.  "  It 
might  sound  better,"  and  marched  into  the  of- 
fice marked  "  Private." 

T.  A.  Junior's  good-looking  back  and  semi- 
bald  head  were  toward  her  as  she  entered.  She 
noted,  approvingly,  woman-fashion,  that  his 
neck  would  never  lap  over  the  edge  of  his  collar 
in  the  back.  Then  Young  T.  A.  turned  about. 
He  gazed  at  Emma  McChesney,  his  eyebrows 
raised  inquiringly.  Emma  McChesney's  hon- 
est blue  eyes,  with  no  translucent  nonsense  about 
them,  gazed  straight  back  at  T.  A.  Junior. 

"  I'm  Mrs.  McChesney.  I  got  in  half  an 
hour  ago.  It's  been  a  good  little  trip,  consid- 
ering business,  and  politics,  and  all  that.  I'm 
sorry  to  hear  your  father's  still  ill.  He  and  I 
always  talked  over  things  after  my  long  trip." 

Young  T.  A.'s  expert  eye  did  not  miss  a 
single  point,  from  the  tip  of  Mrs.  McChesney's 
smart  spring  hat  to  the  toes  of  her  well-shod 
feet,  with  full  stops  for  the  fit  of  her  tailored 

[153] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

suit,  the  freshness  of  her  gloves,  the  clearness 
of  her  healthy  pink  skin,  the  wave  of  her  soft, 
bright  hair. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  said 
Young  T.  A.  emphatically.  "  Please  sit  down. 
It's  a  good  idea  —  this  talking  over  your  trip. 
There  are  several  little  things  —  now  Kiser  & 
Bloch,  of  River  Falls,  for  instance.  We  ought 
to  be  selling  them.  The  head  of  their  skirt 
and  suit  department  is  named  Stitch,  isn't  she? 
Now,  what  would  you  say  of  Miss  Stitch?  " 

"  Say? "  repeated  Emma  McChesney 
quickly.  "  As  a  woman,  or  a  buyer?  " 

T.   A.   Junior   thought   a   minute.     "  As   a 


woman." 


Mrs.  McChesney  thoughtfully  regarded  the 
tips  of  her  neatly  gloved  hands.  Then  she 
looked  up.  "  The  kindest  and  gentlest  thing 
I  can  say  about  her  is  that  if  she'd  let  her  hair 
grow  out  gray  maybe  her  face  wouldn't  look  so 
hard." 

T.  A.  Junior  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair 
and  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  at  the 
ceiling. 

Then,  "  How  old  is  your  son?  "  with  discon- 
certing suddenness. 

[154] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

"  Jock's  scandalously  near  eighteen."  In  her 
quick  mind  Emma  McChesney  was  piecing  odds 
and  ends  together,  and  shaping  the  whole  to  fit 
Fat  Ed  Meyers.  A  little  righteous  anger  was 
rising  within  her. 

T.  A.  Junior  searched  her  face  with  his  glow- 
ing eyes. 

"  Does  my  father  know  that  you  have  a 
young  man  son?  Queer  you  never  mentioned 
it." 

"  Queer?  Maybe.  Also,  I  don't  remember 
ever  having  mentioned  what  church  my  folks 
belonged  to,  or  where  I  was  born,  or  whether 
I  like  my  steak  rare  or  medium,  or  what  my 
maiden  name  was,  or  the  size  of  my  shoes,  or 
whether  I  take  my  coffee  with  or  without. 
That's  because  I  don't  believe  in  dragging  pri- 
vate and  family  affairs  into  the  business  relation. 
I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  on  the  way  in  I 
met  Ed  Meyers,  of  the  Strauss  Sans-silk  Skirt 
Company,  coming  out.  So  anything  you  say 
won't  surprise  me." 

"  You  wouldn't  be  surprised,"  asked  T.  A. 
Junior  smoothly,  "  if  I  were  to  say  that  I'm  con- 
sidering giving  a  man  your  territory?  " 

Emma  McChesney's  eyes  —  those  eyes  that 

[155] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  and  its  ways, 
and  that  still  could  return  your  gaze  so  clearly 
and  honestly  —  widened  until  they  looked  so 
much  like  those  of  a  hurt  child,  or  a  dumb  ani- 
mal that  has  received  a  death  wound,  that 
young  T.  A.  dropped  his  gaze  in  confusion. 

Emma  McChesney  stood  up.  Her  breath 
came  a  little  quickly.  But  when  she  spoke,  her 
voice  was  low  and  almost  steady. 

"  If  you  expect  me  to  beg  you  for  my  job, 
you're  mistaken.  T.  A.  Buck's  Feather-loom 
Petticoats  have  been  my  existence  for  almost 
ten  years.  I've  sold  Featherlooms  six  days  in 
the  week,  and  seven  when  I  had  a  Sunday  cus- 
tomer. They've  not  only  been  my  business  and 
my  means  of  earning  a  livelihood,  they've  been 
my  religion,  my  diversion,  my  life,  my  pet  pas- 
time. I've  lived  petticoats,  I've  talked  petti- 
coats, I've  sold  petticoats,  I've  dreamed  petti- 
coats —  why,  I've  even  worn  the  darned  things ! 
And  that's  more  than  any  man  will  ever  do  for 
you." 

Young  T.  A.  rose.  He  laughed  a  little  laugh 
of  sheer  admiration.  Admiration  shone,  too, 
in  those  eyes  of  his  which  so  many  women  found 
irresistible.  He  took  a  step  forward  and  laid 


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SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

one  well-shaped  hand  on  Emma  McChesney's 
arm.  She  did  not  shrink,  so  he  let  his  hand 
slip  down  the  neat  blue  serge  sleeve  until  it 
reached  her  snugly  gloved  hand. 

"  You're  all  right!  "  he  said.  His  voice  was 
very  low,  and  there  was  a  new  note  in  it. 
"  Listen,  girlie.  I've  just  bought  a  new  sixty* 
power  machine.  Have  dinner  with  me  to-night, 
will  you?  And  we'll  take  a  run  out  in  the  coun- 
try somewhere.  It's  warm,  even  for  March, 
I'll  bring  along  a  fur  coat  for  you.  H'm?  " 

Mrs.  McChesney  stood  thoughtfully  regard- 
ing the  hand  that  covered  her  own.  The  blue 
of  her  eyes  and  the  pink  of  her  cheeks  were  a 
marvel  to  behold. 

"  It's  a  shame,"  she  began  slowly,  "  that 
you're  not  twenty-five  years  younger,  so  that 
your  father  could  give  you  the  licking  you  de- 
serve when  he  comes  home.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  he'd  do  it  anyway.  The  Lord  pre- 
serve me  from  these  quiet,  deep  devils  with 
temperamental  hands  and  luminous  eyes.  Give 
me  one  of  the  bull-necked,  red-faced,  hoarse- 
voiced,  fresh  kind  every  time.  You  know  what 
they're  going  to  say,  at  least,  and  you're  pre- 
pared for  them.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  how  the 

[159] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

hand  you're  holding  is  tingling  to  box  your  ears 
you'd  marvel  that  any  human  being  could  have 
that  much  repression  and  live.  I've  heard  of 
this  kind  of  thing,  but  I  didn't  know  it  happened 
often  off  the  stage  and  outside  of  novels.  Let's 
get  down  to  cases.  If  I  let  you  make  love  to 
me,  I  keep  my  job.  Is  that  it?  " 

"Why  —  no  —  I  — to  tell  the  truth  I  was 
only—  " 

"  Don't  embarrass  yourself.  I  just  want  to 
tell  you  that  before  I'd  accept  your  auto  ride  I'd 
>open  a  little  fancy  art  goods  and  needlework 
store  in  Menominee,  Michigan,  and  get  out  the 
newest  things  in  Hardanger  work  and  Egyp- 
tian embroidery.  And  that's  my  notion  of  zero 
in  occupation.  Besides,  no  plain,  everyday 
workingwoman  could  enjoy  herself  in  your  car 
because  her  conscience  wouldn't  let  her.  She'd 
be  thinking  all  the  time  how  she  was  depriving 
some  poor,  hard-working  chorus  girl  of  her  le- 
gitimate pastime,  and  that  would  spoil  every- 
thing. The  elevator  man  told  me  that  you  had 
a  new  motor  car,  but  the  news  didn't  interest  me 
half  as  much  as  that  of  his  having  new  twin 
girls.  Anything  with  five  thousand  dollars  can 
have  a  sixty-power  machine,  but  only  an  ele- 
[160] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

vator  man  on  eight  dollars  a  week  can  afford 
the  luxury  of  twins." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  McChesney— " 

"  Don't,"  said  Emma  McChesney  sharply. 
"  I  couldn't  stand  much  more.  I  joke,  you 
know,  when  other  women  cry.  It  isn't  so  wear- 
ing." 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  toward  the 
door.  T.  A.  Junior  overtook  her  in  three  long 
strides,  and  placed  himself  directly  before  her. 

"  My  cue,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  with  a 
weary  brightness,  "  to  say,  '  Let  me  pass, 
sir!'" 

"Please  don't,"  pleaded  T.  A.  Junior. 
"  I'll  remember  this  the  rest  of  my  life.  I 
thought  I  was  a  statue  of  modern  business 
methods,  but  after  to-day  I'm  going  to  ask  the 
office  boy  to  help  me  run  this  thing.  If  I  could 
only  think  of  some  special  way  to  apologize  to 
you  — " 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Emma  McChesney 
indifferently. 

"  But  it  isn't !  It  isn't !  You  don't  under- 
stand. That  human  jellyfish  of  a  Meyers  said 
some  things,  and  I  thought  I'd  be  clever  and 
prove  them.  I  can't  ask  your  pardon.  There 
[161] 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

aren't  words  enough  in  the  language.  Why, 
you're  the  finest  little  woman  —  you're  —  you'd 
restore  the  faith  of  a  cynic  who  had  chronic  in- 
digestion. I  wish  I  —  Say,  let  me  relieve  you 
of  a  couple  of  those  small  towns  that  you  hate 
to  make,  and  give  you  Cleveland  and  Cincin- 
nati. And  let  me —  Why  say,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney!  Please!  Don't!  This  isn't  the 
time  to  — " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  sobbed  Emma  McChesney, 
her  two  hands  before  her  face.  "  I'll  stop 
in  a  minute.  There;  I'm  stopping  now.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  stop  patting  me  on  the  head!  " 

"  Please  don't  be  so  decent  to  me,"  entreated 
T.  A.  Junior,  his  fine  eyes  more  luminous  than 
ever.  "  If  only  you'd  try  to  get  back  at  me  I 
wouldn't  feel  so  cut  up  about  it." 

Emma  McChesney  looked  up  at  him,  a  smile 
shining  radiantly  through  the  tears. 

"  Very  well.  I'll  do  it.  Just  before  I  came 
in  they  showed  me  that  new  embroidery  flounced 
model  you  just  designed.  Maybe  you  don't 
know  it,  but  women  wear  only  one  limp  petti- 
coat nowadays.  And  buttoned  shoes.  The 
eyelets  in  that  embroidery  are  just  big  enough 
to  catch  on  the  top  button  of  a  woman's  shoe, 


"And  found  himself  addressing  the  backs  of  the  letters  on  the} 
door  marked  'Private'" — Page  165 


SIMPLY  SKIRTS 

and  tear,  and  trip  her.  I  ought  to  have  let  you 
make  up  a  couple  of  million  of  them,  and  then 
watch  them  come  back  on  your  hands.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you,  anyway,  for  T.  A.  Senior's 
sake.  Now  I'm  doing  it  for  your  own." 

"  For  — "  began  T.  A.  Junior  excitedly. 
And  found  himself  addressing  the  backs  of  the 
letters  on  the  door  marked  "  Private,"  as  it 
slammed  after  the  trim,  erect  figure  in  blue. 


VII 
UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

TT  7E  all  carry  with  us  into  the  one-night-stand 
country  called  Sleepland,  a  practical  work- 
ing nightmare  that  we  use  again  and  again,  no 
matter  how  varied  the  theme  or  setting  of  our 
dream-drama.  Your  surgeon,  tossing  uneasily 
on  his  bed,  sees  himself  cutting  to  remove  an 
appendix,  only  to  discover  that  that  unpopular 
portion  of  his  patient's  anatomy  already  bobs  in 
alcoholic  glee  in  a  bottle  on  the  top  shelf  of  the 
laboratory  of  a  more  alert  professional  brother. 
Your  civil  engineer  constructs  imaginary  bridges 
which  slump  and  fall  as  quickly  as  they  are  com- 
pleted. Your  stage  favorite,  in  the  throes  of 
a  post-lobster  nightmare,  has  a  horrid  vision  of 
herself  "  resting  "  in  January.  But  when  he 
who  sells  goods  on  the  road  groans  and  tosses 
in  the  clutches  of  a  dreadful  dream,  it  is, 
strangely  enough,  never  of  canceled  orders, 
maniacal  train  schedules,  lumpy  mattresses,  or 
[166] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

rilely  cooked  food.  These  everyday  things  he 
accepts  with  a  philosopher's  cheerfulness.  No 
—  his  nightmare  is  always  a  vision  of  himself, 
sick  on  the  road,  at  a  country  hotel  in  the  middle 
of  a  Spring  season. 

On  the  third  day  that  she  looked  with  more 
than  ordinary  indifference  upon  hotel  and  din- 
ing-car food  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  repre- 
senting the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat 
Company,  wondered  if,  perhaps,  she  did  not  need 
a  bottle  of  bitter  tonic.  On  the  fifth  day  she  no- 
ticed that  there  were  chills  chasing  up  and  down 
her  spine,  and  back  and  forth  from  legs  to 
shoulder-blades  when  other  people  were  wiping 
their  chins  and  foreheads  with  bedraggled-look- 
ing handkerchiefs,  and  demanding  to  know  how 
long  this  heat  was  going  to  last,  anyway.  On 
the  sixth  day  she  lost  all  interest  in  T.  A.  Buck's 
Featherloom  Petticoats.  And  then  she  knew 
that  something  was  seriously  wrong.  On  the 
seventh  day,  when  the  blonde  and  nasal  waitress 
approached  her  in  the  dining-room  of  the  little 
hotel  at  Glen  Rock,  Minnesota,  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  mind  somehow  failed  to  grasp  the  mean- 
ing of  the  all  too  obvious  string  of  questions 
which  were  put  to  her  —  questions  ending  in 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

the  inevitable  "  Tea,  coffee  'r  milk?  "  At  that 
juncture  Emma  McChesney  had  looked  up  into 
the  girl's  face  in  a  puzzled,  uncomprehending 
way,  had  passed  one  hand  dazedly  over  her  hot 
forehead,  and  replied,  with  great  earnestness: 
*  Yours  of  the  twelfth  at  hand  and  contents 
noted  .  .  .  the  greatest  little  skirt  on  the 
market  .  .  .  he's  going  to  be  a  son  to  be 
proud  of,  God  bless  him  .  .  .  want  to 
leave  a  call  for  seven  sharp — " 

The  lank  waitress's  face  took  on  an  added 
blankness.  One  of  the  two  traveling  men  at 
the  same  table  started  to  laugh,  but  the  other 
put  out  his  hand  quickly,  rose,  and  said, 
"  Shut  up,  you  blamed  fool !  Can't  you  see  the 
lady's  sick?"  And  started  in  the  direction  of 
her  chair. 

Even  then  there  came  into  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  ordinarily  well-ordered,  alert  mind  the 
uncomfortable  thought  that  she  was  talking  non- 
sense. She  made  a  last  effort  to  order  her 
brain  into  its  usual  sane  clearness,  failed,  and 
saw  the  coarse  white  table-cloth  rising  swiftly 
and  slantingly  to  meet  her  head. 

It  speaks  well  for  Emma  McChesney's  bal- 
ance that  when  she  found  herself  in  bed,  two 
[168] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

strange  women,  and  one  strange  man,  and  an 
all-too-familiar  bell-boy  in  the  room,  she  did 
not  say,  u  Where  am  I?  What  happened?" 
Instead  she  told  herself  that  the  amazingly  and 
unbelievably  handsome  young  man  bending  over 
her  with  a  stethoscope  was  a  doctor;  that  the 
plump,  bleached  blonde  in  the  white  shirtwaist 
was  the  hotel  housekeeper;  that  the  lank  ditto 
was  a  waitress;  and  that  the  expression  on  the 
face  of  each  was  that  of  apprehension,  tinged 
with  a  pleasurable  excitement.  So  she  sat  up, 
dislodging  the  stethoscope,  and  ignoring  the  pur- 
pose of  the  thermometer  which  had  reposed 
under  her  tongue. 

"  Look  here!  "  she  said,  addressing  the  doc- 
tor in  a  high,  queer  voice.  "  I  can't  be  sick> 
young  man.  Haven't  time.  Not  just  now. 
Put  it  off  until  August  and  I'll  be  as  sick  as  you 
like.  Why,  man,  this  is  the  middle  of  June, 
and  I'm  due  in  Minneapolis  now." 

"  Lie  down,  please,"  said  the  handsome 
young  doctor,  "  and  don't  dare  remove  this 
thermometer  again  until  I  tell  you  to.  This 
can't  be  put  off  until  August.  You're  sick  right 


now." 


Mrs.  McChesney  shut  her  lips  over  the  little 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

glass  tube,  and  watched  the  young  doctor's  im- 
passive face  (it  takes  them  no  time  to  learn  that 
trick)  and,  woman-wise,  jumped  to  her  own  con- 
clusion. 

"  How  sick?  "  she  demanded,  the  thermome- 
ter read. 

"  Oh,  it  won't  be  so  bad,"  said  the  very  young 
doctor,  with  a  professionally  cheerful  smile. 

Emma  McChesney  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  jerk. 
"  You  mean  —  sick !  Not  ill,  or  grippy,  or  run 
down,  but  sick!  Trained-nurse  sick!  Hos 
pital  sick!  Doctor-twice-a-day  sick!  Table- 
by-the-bedside-with-bottles-on-it  sick!  " 

"  Well  —  a  — "  hesitated  the  doctor,  and 
then  took  shelter  behind  a  bristling  hedge  of 
Latin  phrases.  Emma  McChesney  hurdled  it 
at  a  leap. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said.  "  I  know."  She 
looked  at  the  faces  of  those  four  strangers. 
Sympathy  —  real,  human  sympathy  —  was  up- 
permost in  each.  She  smiled  a  faint  and 
friendly  little  smile  at  the  group.  And  at  that 
the  housekeeper  began  tucking  in  the  covers  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  the  lank  waitress 
walked  to  the  window  and  pulled  down  the 
shade,  and  the  bell-boy  muttered  something 
[172] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

about  ice-water.  The  doctor  patted  her  wrist 
lightly  and  reassuringly. 

"  You're  all  awfully  good,"  said  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney,  her  eyes  glowing  with  something  other 
than  fever.  "  I've  something  to  say.  It's  just 
this.  If  I'm  going  to  be  sick  I'd  prefer  to  be 
sick  right  here,  unless  it's  something  catching. 
No  hospital.  Don't  ask  me  why.  I  don't 
know.  We  people  on  the  road  are  all  alike. 
Wire  T.  A.  Buck,  Junior,  of  the  Featherloom 
Petticoat  Company,  New  .York.  You'll  find 
plenty  of  clean  nightgowns  in  the  left-hand  tray 
of  my  trunk,  covered  with  white  tissue  paper. 
Get  a  nurse  that  doesn't  sniffle,  or  talk  about  the 
palace  she  nursed  in  last,  where  they  treated 
her  like  a  queen  and  waited  on  her  hand  and 
foot.  For  goodness'  sake,  put  my  switch  where 
nothing  will  happen  to  it,  and  if  I  die  and  they 
run  my  picture  in  the  Dry  Goods  Review  under 
the  caption,  '  Veteran  Traveling  Saleswoman 
Succumbs  at  Glen  Rock,'  I'll  haunt  the  editor.'* 
She  paused  a  moment. 

"  Everything  will  be  all  right,"  said  the 
housekeeper,  soothingly.  "  You'll  think  you're 
right  at  home,  it'll  be  so  comfortable.  Was 
there  anything  else,  now?  " 

[173] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

"  Yes,"  said  Emma  McChesney.  "  The 
most  important  of  all.  My  son,  Jock  McChes- 
ney, is  fishing  up  in  the  Canadian  woods.  A 
telegram  may  not  reach  him  for  three  weeks. 
They're  shifting  about  from  camp  to  camp. 
Try  to  get  him,  but  don't  scare  him  too  much. 
You'll  find  the  address  under  J.  in  my  address 
book  in  my  handbag.  Poor  kid.  Perhaps  it's 
just  as  well  he  doesn't  know." 

Perhaps  it  was.  At  any  rate  it  was  true  that 
had  the  tribe  of  McChesney  been  as  the  leaves 
of  the  trees,  and  had  it  held  a  family  reunion 
In  Emma  McChesney's  little  hotel  bedroom,  it 
would  have  mattered  not  at  all  to  her.  For 
she  was  sick  —  doctor-three-times-a-day-trained- 
nurse-bottles-by-the-bedside  sick,  her  head,  with 
its  bright  hair  rumpled  and  dry  with  the  fever, 
tossing  from  side  to  side  on  the  lumpy  hotel  pil- 
low, or  lying  terribly  silent  and  inert  against  the 
gray-white  of  the  bed  linen.  She  never  quite 
knew  how  narrowly  she  escaped  that  picture  in 
the  Dry  Goods  Review. 

Then  one  day  the  fever  began  to  recede, 
slowly,  whence  fevers  come,  and  the  indefinable 
air  of  suspense  and  repression  that  lingers  about 
a  sick-room  at  such  a  crisis  began  to  lift  imper- 

[174] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

ceptibly.  There  came  a  time  when  Emma  Me- 
Chesney  asked  in  a  weak  but  sane  voice : 

"Did  Jock  come?  Did  they  cut  off  my 
hair?" 

"  Not  yet,  dear,"  the  nurse  had  answered 
to  the  first,  "  but  we'll  hear  in  a  day  or  so,  I'm 
sure."  And,  "Your  lovely  hair!  Well,  not 
if  I  know  it!  "  to  the  second. 

The  spirit  of  small-town  kindliness  took 
Emma  McChesney  in  its  arms.  The  dingy 
little  hotel  room  glowed  with  flowers.  The 
story  of  the  sick  woman  fighting  there  alone 
in  the  terrors  of  delirium  had  gone  up  and 
down  about  the  town.  Housewives  with  a  fine 
contempt  for  hotel  soups  sent  broths  of  chicken 
and  beef.  The  local  members  of  the  U.  C.  T. 
sent  roses  enough  to  tax  every  vase  and  wash- 
pitcher  that  the  hotel  could  muster,  and  asked 
their  wives  to  call  at  the  hotel  and  see  what 
they  could  do.  The  wives  came,  obediently,  but 
with  suspicion  and  distrust  in  their  eyes,  and  re- 
mained to  pat  Emma  McChesney's  arm,  ask  to 
read  aloud  to  her,  and  to  indulge  generally  in 
that  process  known  as  "  cheering  her  up." 
Every  traveling  man  who  stopped  at  the  little 
hotel  on  his  way  to  Minneapolis  added  to  the 

[175] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

heaped-up  offerings  at  Emma  McChesney's 
shrine.  Books  and  magazines  assumed  the 
proportions  of  a  library.  One  could  see  the 
hand  of  T.  A.  Buck,  Junior,  in  the  cases  of  min- 
eral water,  quarts  of  wine,  cunning  cordials  and 
tiny  bottles  of  liqueur  that  stood  in  convivial 
rows  on  the  closet  shelf  and  floor.  There  came 
letters,  too,  and  telegrams  with  such  phrases  as 
"  let  nothing  be  left  undone  "  and  "  spare  no 
expense  "  under  T.  A.  Buck,  Junior's,  signature. 
So  Emma  McChesney  climbed  the  long, 
weary  hill  of  illness  and  pain,  reached  the  top, 
panting  and  almost  spent,  rested  there,  and  be- 
gan the  easy  descent  on  the  other  side  that  led 
to  recovery  and  strength.  But  something  was 
lacking.  That  sunny  optimism  that  had  been 
Emma  McChesney's  most  valuable  asset  was 
absent.  The  blue  eyes  had  lost  their  brave 
laughter.  A  despondent  droop  lingered  in  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  that  had  been  such  a  rare 
mixture  of  firmness  and  tenderness.  Even  the 
advent  of  Fat  Ed  Meyers,  her  keenest  competi- 
tor, and  representative  of  the  Strauss  Sans- 
silk  Company,  failed  to  awaken  in  her  the 
proper  spirit  of  antagonism.  Fat  Ed  Meyers 
sent  a  bunch  of  violets  that  devastated  the  violet 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

beds  at  the  local  greenhouse.  Emma  McChes- 
ney  regarded  them  listlessly  when  the  nurse 
lifted  them  out  of  their  tissue  wrappings.  But 
the  name  on  the  card  brought  a  tiny  smile  to 
her  lips. 

"  He  says  he'd  like  to  see  you,  if  you  feel 
able,"  said  Miss  Haney,  the  nurse,  when  she 
came  up  from  dinner. 

Emma  McChesney  thought  a  minute.  "  Bet- 
ter tell  him  it's  catching,"  she  said. 

"  He  knows  it  isn't,"  returned  Miss  Haney. 
"  But  if  you  don't  want  him,  why- 

"  Tell  him  to  come  up,"  interrupted  Emma. 
McChesney,  suddenly. 

A  faint  gleam  of  the  old  humor  lighted  up- 
her  face  when  Fat  Ed  Meyers  painfully  tip- 
toed in,  brown  derby  in  hand,  his  red  face  prop- 
erly doleful,  brown  shoes  squeaking.  His  fig- 
ure loomed  mountainous  in  a  light-brown  sum- 
mer suit. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  he  be- 
gan, heavily  humorous.  "  Couldn't  you  find 
anything  better  to  do  in  the  middle  of  the 
season?  Say,  on  the  square,  girlie,  I'm  dead 
sorry.  Hard  luck,  by  gosh!  Young  T.  A. 
himself  went  out  with  a  line  in  your  territory,. 

[177] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

didn't  he?     I  didn't  think  that  guy  had  it  in 
him,  darned  if  I  did." 

"  It  was  sweet  of  you  to  send  all  those  violets, 
Mr.  Meyers.  I  hope  you're  not  disappointed 
that  they  couldn't  have  been  worked  in  the  form 
of  a  pillow,  with  *  At  Rest '  done  in  white  curly- 


cues." 


"Mrs.  McChesney!"  Ed  Meyers'  round 
face  expressed  righteous  reproof,  pain,  and 
surprise.  "  You  and  I  may  have  had  a  word, 
now  and  then,  and  I  will  say  that  you  dealt 
me  a  couple  of  low-down  tricks  on  the  road, 
but  that's  all  in  the  game.  I  never  held  it  up 
against  you.  Say,  nobody  ever  admired  you 
or  appreciated  you  more  than  I  did — " 

"  Look  out !  "  said  Emma  McChesney. 
"  You're  speaking  in  the  past  tense.  Please 
don't.  It  makes  me  nervous." 

Ed  Meyers  laughed,  uncomfortably,  and 
glanced  yearningly  toward  the  door.  He 
seemed  at  a  loss  to  account  for  something  he 
failed  to  find  in  the  manner  and  conversation 
of  Mrs.  McChesney. 

"  Son  here  with  you,  I  suppose,"  he  asked, 
cheerily,  sure  that  he  was  on  safe  ground  at 
last 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

Emma  McChesney  closed  her  eyes.  The  lit- 
tle room  became  very  still.  In  a  panic  Ed 
Meyers  looked  helplessly  from  the  white  face, 
with  its  hollow  cheeks  and  closed  eyelids  to 
the  nurse  who  sat  at  the  window.  That  dis- 
creet damsel  put  her  finger  swiftly  to  her  lips, 
and  shook  her  head.  Ed  Meyers  rose,  hastily, 
his  face  a  shade  redder  than  usual. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  gotta  be  running  along. 
I'm  tickled  to  death  to  find  you  looking  so 
fat  and  sassy.  I  got  an  idea  you  were  just 
stalling  for  a  rest,  that's  all.  Say,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney, there's  a  swell  little  dame  in  the  house 
named  Riordon.  She's  on  the  road,  too.  I 
don't  know  what  her  line  is,  but  she's  a  friendly 
kid,  with  a  bunch  of  talk.  A  woman  always 
likes  to  have  another  woman  fussin'  around 
when  she's  sick.  I  told  her  about  you,  and  how 
I'd  bet  you'd  be  crazy  to  get  a  chance  to  talk 
shop  and  Featherlooms  again.  I  guess  you 
ain't  lost  your  interest  in  Featherlooms,  eh, 
what?" 

Emma  McChesney's  face  indicated  not  the 
faintest  knowledge  of  Featherloom  Petticoats. 
Ed  Meyers  stared,  aghast.  And  as  he  stared 
there  came  a  little  knock  at  the  door  —  a  series 

[179] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

of  staccato  raps,  with  feminine  knuckles  back  of 
them.  The  nurse  went  to  the  door,  disap- 
proval on  her  face.  At  the  turning  of  the  knob 
there  bounced  into  the  room  a  vision  in  an  Alice- 
blue  suit,  plumes  to  match,  pearl  earrings,  elab- 
orate coiffure  of  reddish-gold  and  a  complexion 
that  showed  an  unbelievable  trust  in  the  credulity 
of  mankind. 

"  How-do,  dearie!"  exclaimed  the  vision. 
"  You  poor  kid,  you !  I  heard  you  was  sick, 
and  I  says,  c  I'm  going  up  to  cheer  her  up  if  I 
have  to  miss  my  train  out  to  do  it.'  Say,  I 
was  laid  up  two  years  ago  in  Idaho  Falls,  Idaho, 
and  believe  me,  I'll  never  forget  it.  I  don't 
know  how  sick  I  was,  but  I  don't  even  want  to 
remember  how  lonesome  I  was.  I  just  clung  to 
the  chamber-maid  like  she  was  my  own  sister. 
If  your  nurse  wants  to  go  out  for  an  airing  I'll 
sit  with  you.  Glad  to." 

"  That's  a  grand  little  idea,"  agreed  Ed 
Meyers.  "  I  told  'em  you'd  brighten  things  up. 
Well,  I'll  be  going.  You'll  be  as  good  as  new 
in  a  week,  Mrs.  McChesney,  don't  you  worry. 
So  long."  And  he  closed  the  door  after  him- 
self with  apparent  relief. 

Miss  Haney,  the  nurse,  was  already  prepar- 
[180] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

ing  to  go  out.  It  was  her  regular  hour  for  ex- 
ercise. Mrs.  McChesney  watched  her  go  with 
a  sinking  heart. 

"Now!"  said  Miss  Riordon,  comfortably, 
"  we  girls  can  have  a  real,  old-fashioned  talk. 
A  nurse  isn't  human.  The  one  I  had  in  Idaho 
Falls  was  strictly  prophylactic,  and  antiseptic, 
and  she  certainly  could  give  the  swell  alcohol 
rubs,  but  you  can't  get  chummy  with  a  human 
disinfectant.  Your  line's  skirts,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Land,  IVe  heard  an  awful  lot  about  you. 
The  boys  on  the  road  certainly  speak  something 
grand  of  you.  I'm  really  jealous.  Say,  I'd 
love  to  show  you  some  of  my  samples  for  this 
season.  They're  just  great.  I'll  just  run  down 
the  hall  to  my  room  — " 

She  was  gone.  Emma  McChesney  shut  her 
eyes,  wearily.  Her  nerves  were  twitching. 
Her  thoughts  were  far,  far  away  from  samples 
and  sample  cases.  So  he  had  turned  out  to  be 
his  worthless  father's  son  after  all!  He  must 
have  got  some  news  of  her  by  now.  And  he 
ignored  it.  He  was  content  to  amuse  himself 
up  there  in  the  Canadian  woods,  while  his 
mother  — 

[1*1] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

Miss  Riordon,  flushed,  and  panting  a  little, 
burst  into  the  room  again,  sample-case  in  hand. 

"  Lordy,  that's  heavy!  It's  a  wonder  I 
haven't  killed  myself  before  now,  wrestling  with 
those  blamed  things." 

Mrs.  McChesney  sat  up  on  one  elbow  as 
Miss  Riordon  tugged  at  the  sample-case  cover. 
Then  she  leaned  forward,  interested  in  spite  of 
herself  at  sight  of  the  pile  of  sheer,  white,  ex- 
quisitely embroidered  and  lacy  garments  that 
lay  disclosed  as  the  cover  fell  back. 

"  Oh,  lingerie !  That's  an  ideal  line  for  a 
woman.  Let's  see  the  yoke  in  that  first  night- 
gown. It's  a  really  wonderful  design." 

Miss  Riordon  laughed  and  shook  out  the 
folds  of  the  topmost  garment.  "  Nightgown !  " 
she  s*aid,  and  laughed  again.  "  Take  another 
look." 

"  Why,  what — "  began  Emma  McChesney. 

"Shrouds!"  announced  Miss  Riordon  com- 
placently. 

"  Shrouds!  "  shrieked  Mrs.  McChesney,  and 
her  elbow  gave  way.  She  fell  back  on  the  pil- 
low. 

"  Beautiful,  ain't  they? "  Miss  Riordon 
twirled  the  white  garment  in  her  hand. 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

"  They're  the  very  newest  thing.  You'll  no- 
tice they're  made  up  slightly  hobble,  with  a 
French  back,  and  high  waist-line  in  the  front. 
Last  season  kimono  sleeves  was  all  the  go,  but 
they're  not  used  this  season.  This  one  — " 

"Take  them  away!  "  screamed  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  hysterically.  "Take  them  away! 
Take  them  away!  "  And  buried  her  face  in 
her  trembling  white  hands. 

Miss  Riordon  stared.  Then  she  slammed 
the  cover  of  the  case,  rose,  and  started  toward 
the  door.  But  before  she  reached  it,  and  while 
the  sick  woman's  sobs  were  still  sounding  hys- 
terically the  door  flew  open  to  admit  a  tall,  slim, 
miraculously  well-dressed  young  man.  The 
next  instant  Emma  McChesney's  lace  nightgown 
was  crushed  against  the  top  of  a  correctly  high- 
cut  vest,  and  her  tears  coursed,  unmolested,, 
down  the  folds  of  an  exquisitely  shaded  laven- 
der silk  necktie. 

"Jock!"  cried  Emma  McChesney;  and 
then,  "  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  my  beautiful  boy!  " 
like  a  woman  in  a  play. 

Jock  was  holding  her  tight,  and  patting  her 
shoulder,  and  pressing  his  healthy,  glowing 
cheek  close  to  hers  that  was  so  gaunt  and  pale. 

[183] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

"  I  got  seven  wires,  all  at  the  same  time. 
They'd  been  chasing  me  for  days,  up  there  in 
the  woods.  I  thought  I'd  never  get  here." 

And  at  that  a  wonderful  thing  happened  to 
Emma  McChesney.  She  lifted  her  face,  and 
showed  dimples  where  lines  had  been,  smiles 
where  tears  had  coursed,  a  glow  where  there 
had  been  a  grayish  pallor.  She  leaned  b?ck  a 
bit  to  survey  this  son  of  hers. 

"  Ugh !  how  black  you  are !  "  It  was  the 
old  Emma  McChesney  that  spoke.  "  You 
young  devil,  you're  actually  growing  a  mus- 
tache !  There's  something  hard  in  your  left- 
hand  vest  pocket.  If  it's  your  fountain  pen 
you'd  better  rescue  it,  because  I'm  going  to 
hug  you  again." 

But  Jock  McChesney  was  not  smiling.  He 
glanced  around  the  stuffy  little  hotel  room.  It 
looked  stuffier  and  drearier  than  ever  in  con- 
trast with  his  radiant  youth,  his  glowing  fresh- 
ness, his  outdoor  tan,  his  immaculate  attire. 
He  looked  at  the  astonished  Miss  Riordon. 
At  his  gaze  that  lady  muttered  something,  and 
fled,  sample-case  banging  at  her  knees.  At  the 
look  in  his  eyes  his  mother  hastened,  woman- 
wise,  to  reassure  him. 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

"  It  wasn't  so  bad,  Jock.  Now  that  you're 
here,  it's  all  right.  Jock,  I  didn't  realize  just 
what  you  meant  to  me  until  you  didn't  come. 
I  didn't  realize  — " 

Jock  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
slid  one  arm  under  his  mother's  head.  There 
was  a  grim  line  about  his  mouth. 

"And  I've  been  fishing,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  sprawling  under  a  tree  in  front  of  a  darned 
fool  stream  and  wondering  whether  to  fry  'em 
for  lunch  now,  or  to  put  my  hat  over  my  eyes 
and  fall  asleep." 

His  mother  reached  up  and  patted  his 
shoulder.  But  the  line  around  Jock's  jaw  did 
not  soften.  He  turned  his  head  to  gaze  down 
at  his  mother. 

;<  Two  of  those  telegrams,  and  one  letter, 
were  from  T.  A.  Buck,  Junior,"  he  said.  "  He 
met  me  at  Detroit.  I  never  thought  I'd  stand 
from  a  total  stranger  what  I  stood  from  that 


man." 


'  Why,  what  do  you  mean?  "  Alarm,  dismay,, 
astonishment  were  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  said  things.  And  he  meant  'em.  He 
showed  me,  in  a  perfectly  well-bred,  cleancut^ 
and  most  convincing  way  just  what  a  miserable,, 

[is?] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

selfish,    low-down,    worthless    young   hound    I 


am." 


"He  —  dared!— " 

"  You  bet  he  dared.  And  then  some.  And 
I  hadn't  an  argument  to  come  back  with.  I 
don't  know  just  where  he  got  all  his  information 
from,  but  it  was  straight." 

He  got  up,  strode  to  the  window,  and  came 
back  to  the  bed.  Both  hands  thrust  deep  in  his 
pockets,  he  announced  his  life  plans,  thus: 

"  I'm  eighteen  years  old.  And  I  look 
twenty-three,  and  act  twenty-five  —  when  I'm 
with  twenty-five-year-olds.  I've  been  as  much 
help  and  comfort  to  you  as  a  pet  alligator. 
YouVe  always  said  that  I  was  to  go  to  college, 
and  I've  sort  of  trained  myself  to  believe  I  was. 
Well,  I'm  not.  I  want  to  get  into  business, 
with  a  capital  B.  And  I  want  to  jump  in  now. 
This  minute.  I've  started  out  to  be  a  first-class 
slob,  with  you  keeping  me  in  pocket  money,  and 
clothes,  and  the  Lord  knows  what  all.  Why, 
I—" 

"  Jock  McChesney,"  said  that  young  man's 
bewildered  mother,  "  just  what  did  T.  A.  Buck, 
Junior,  say  to  you  anyway?  " 

"  Plenty.  Enough  to  make  me  see  things. 
[188] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

I  used  to  think  that  I  wanted  to  get  into  one 
of  the  professions.  Professions!  You  talk 
about  the  romance  of  a  civil  engineer's  life! 
Why,  to  be  a  successful  business  man  these  days 
you've  got  to  be  a  buccaneer,  and  a  diplomat, 
and  a  detective,  and  a  clairvoyant,  and  an  ex- 
pert mathematician,  and  a  wizard.  Business  — 
just  plain  everyday  business  —  is  the  gamiest* 
chanciest,  most  thrilling  line  there  is  to-day,  and 
I'm  for  it.  Let  the  other  guy  hang  out  his 
shingle  and  wait  for  'em.  I'm  going  out  and 
get  mine." 

"  Any  particular  line,  or  just  planning  to  cor- 
ner the  business  market  generally?  "  came  a 
cool,  not  too  amused  voice  from  the  bed. 

"  Advertising,"  replied  Jock  crisply. 
"  Magazine  advertising,  to  start  with.  I  met 
a  fellow  up  in  the  woods  —  named  O'Rourke. 
He  was  a  star  football  man  at  Yale.  He's 
bucking  the  advertising  line  now  for  the  Mas- 
todon Magazine.  He's  crazy  about  it,  and  says 
it's  the  greatest  game  ever.  I  want  to  get  into 
it  now  —  not  four  years  from  now." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Emma  McChesney 
regarded  him,  eyes  glowing.  Then  she  gave  a 
happy  little  laugh,  reached  for  her  kimono  at 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  prepared  to  kick  off 
the  bedclothes. 

"  Just  run  into  the  hall  a  second,  son,"  she  an- 
nounced. "  I'm  going  to  get  up." 

"  Up  I  No,  you're  not !  "  shouted  Jock,  mak- 
ing a  rush  at  her.  Then,  in  the  exuberance  of 
his  splendid  young  strength,  he  picked  her  up, 
swathed  snugly  in  a  roll  of  sheeting  and  light 
blanket,  carried  her  to  the  big  chair  by  the 
window,  and  seated  himself,  with  his  surprised 
and  laughing  mother  in  his  arms. 

But  Mrs.  McChesney  was  serious  again  in 
a  moment.  She  lay  with  her  head  against  her 
boy's  breast  for  a  while.  Then  she  spoke  what 
was  in  her  sane,  far-seeing  mind. 

'  Jock,  if  I've  ever  wished  you  were  a  girl, 
I  take  it  all  back  now.  I'd  rather  have  heard 
what  you  just  said  than  any  piece  of  unbe- 
lievable good  fortune  in  the  world.  God  bless 
you  for  it,  dear.  But,  Jock,  you're  going  to 
college.  No  —  wait  a  minute.  You'll  have  a 
chance  to  prove  the  things  you  just  said  by 
getting  through  in  three  years  instead  of  the 
usual  four.  If  you're  in  earnest  you  can  do  it. 
I  want  my  boy  to  start  into  this  business  war 
[190] 


'In  the  exuberance  of  his  young  strength,  he  picked  her  up" 

—Page  190 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

equipped  with  every  means  of  defense.  You 
called  it  a  game.  It's  more  than  that  —  it's  a 
battle.  Compared  to  the  successful  business 
man  of  to-day  the  Revolutionary  Minute  Men 
were  as  keen  and  alert  as  the  Seven  Sleepers. 
I  know  that  there  are  more  non-college  men 
driving  street-cars  than  there  are  college  men. 
But  that  doesn't  influence  me.  You  could  get 
a  job  now.  Not  much  of  a  position,  perhaps, 
but  something  self-respecting  and  fairly  well- 
paying.  It  would  teach  you  many  things. 
You  might  get  a  knowledge  of  human  nature 
that  no  college  could  give  you.  But  there's 
something  —  poise  —  self-confidence  —  assur- 
ance —  that  nothing  but  college  can  give  you. 
You  will  find  yourself  in  those  three  years. 
After  you  finish  college  you'll  have  difficulty  in 
fitting  into  your  proper  niche,  perhaps,  and 
you'll  want  to  curse  the  day  on  which  you  heeded 
my  advice.  It'll  look  as  though  you  had  simply 
wasted  those  three  precious  years.  But  in  five 
or  six  years  after,  when  your  character  has 
jelled,  and  you've  hit  your  pace,  you'll  bless  me 
for  it.  As  for  a  knowledge  of  humanity,  and 
of  business  tricks  —  well,  your  mother  is  fairly 

[193] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

familiar  with  the  busy  marts  of  trade.  If  you 
want  to  learn  folks  you  can  spend  your  summers 
selling  Featherlooms  with  me." 

"  But,  mother,  you  don't  understand  just 
why—  " 

u  Yes,  dear  'un,  I  do.  After  all,  remember 
you're  only  eighteen.  You'll  probably  spend 
part  of  your  time  rushing  around  at  class  proms 
with  a  red  ribbon  in  your  coat  lapel  to  show 
you're  on  the  floor  committee.  And  you'll  be 
girl-fussing,  too.  But  you'd  be  attracted  to 
girls,  in  or  out  of  college,  and  I'd  rather,  just 
now,  that  it  would  be  some  pretty,  nice-thinking 
college  girl  in  a  white  sweater  and  a  blue  serge 
skirt,  whose  worst  thought  was  wondering  if 
you  could  be  cajoled  into  taking  her  to  the  Fresh- 
man-Sophomore basketball  game,  than  some 
red-lipped,  black-jet-ear  ringed  siren  gazing  at 
you  across  the  table  in  some  basement  cafe. 
And,  goodness  knows,  Jock,  you  wear  your 
clothes  so  beautifully  that  even  the  haber- 
dashers' salesmen  eye  you  with  respect.  IVe 
seen  'em.  That's  one  course  you  needn't  take 
at  college." 

Jock  sat  silent,  his  face  grave  with  thought 
"  But  when  I'm  earning  money  —  real  money 

[194] 


UNDERNEATH  THE  HIGH-CUT  VEST 

—  it's  off  the  road  for  you,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  I  don't  want  this  to  sound  like  a  scene  from 
East  Lynne,  but,  mother — " 

"  Um-m-m-m  —  ye-ee-es,"  assented  Emma 
McChesney,  with  no  alarming  enthusiasm. 
"  Jock  dear,  carry  me  back  to  bed  again,  will 
you?  And  then  open  the  closet  door  and  pull 
out  that  big  sample-case  to  the  side  of  my  bed. 
The  newest  Fall  Featherlooms  are  in  it,  and 
somehow,  I've  just  a  whimsy  notion  that  I'd  like 
to  look  'em  over." 


[195] 


VIII 
CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

TPEMPTATION  himself  is  not  much  of 
a  spieler.  Raucous-voiced,  red-faced, 
greasy,  he  stands  outside  his  gaudy  tent,  dilat- 
ing on  the  wonders  within.  One  or  two,  per- 
haps, straggle  in.  But  the  crowd,  made  wary 
by  bitter  experience  of  the  sham  and  cheap 
fraud  behind  the  tawdry  canvas  flap,  stops  a 
moment,  laughs,  and  passes  on.  Then  Tempta- 
tion, in  a  panic,  seeing  his  audience  drifting 
away,  summons  from  inside  the  tent  his  be- 
spangled and  bewitching  partner,  Mile.  Psycho- 
logical Moment,  the  Hypnotic  Charmer.  She 
leaps  to  the  platform,  bows,  pirouettes.  The 
crowd  surges  toward  the  ticket-window,  nickel 
in  hand. 

Six  months  of  bad  luck  had  dogged  the  foot- 
steps   of    Mrs.    Emma    McChesney,    traveling 
[196] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

saleswoman  for  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom 
Petticoat  Company,  New  York.  It  had  started 
with  a  six-weeks'  illness  endured  in  the  discom- 
fort of  a  stuffy  little  hotel  bedroom  at  Glen 
Rock,  Minnesota.  By  August  she  was  back  in 
New  York,  attending  to  out-of-town  buyers. 

Those  friendly  Middle-Western  persons 
showed  dismay  at  her  pale,  hollow-eyed  appear- 
ance. They  spoke  to  her  of  teaspoonfuls  of 
olive-oil  taken  thrice  a  day,  of  mountain  air,  of 
cold  baths,  and,  above  all,  of  the  advisability  of 
leaving  the  road  and  taking  an  inside  position. 
At  that  Emma  McChesney  always  showed  signs 
of  unmistakable  irritation. 

In  September  her  son,  Jock  McChesney,  just 
turned  eighteen,  went  blithely  off  to  college,  dis- 
guised as  a  millionaire's  son  in  a  blue  Norfolk, 
silk  hose,  flat-heeled  shoes,  correctly  mounted 
walrus  bag,  and  next-week's  style  in  fall  hats. 
As  the  train  glided  out  of  the  great  shed  Emma 
McChesney  had  waved  her  handkerchief,  smil- 
ing like  fury  and  seeing  nothing  but  an  indis- 
tinct blur  as  the  observation  platform  slipped 
around  the  curve.  She  had  not  felt  that  same 
clutching,  desolate  sense  of  loss  since  the  time, 

[197] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

thirteen  years  before,  when  she  had  cut  off  his 
curls  and  watched  him  march  sturdily  off  to  kin- 
dergarten. 

In  October  it  was  plain  that  spring  skirts, 
instead  of  being  full  as  predicted,  were  as  scant 
and  plaitless  as  ever.  That  spelled  gloom  for 
the  petticoat  business.  It  was  necessary  to  sell 
three  of  the  present  absurd  style  to  make  the 
profit  that  had  come  from  the  sale  of  one  skirt 
five  years  before. 

The  last  week  in  November,  tragedy  stalked 
upon  the  scene  in  the  death  at  Marienbad  of  old 
T.  A.  Buck,  Mrs.  McChesney's  stanch  friend 
and  beloved  employer.  Emma  McChesney  had 
wept  for  him  as  one  weeps  at  the  loss  of  a 
father. 

They  had  understood  each  other,  those  two, 
from  the,  time  that  Emma  McChesney,  di- 
vorced, penniless,  refusing  support  from  the 
man  she  had  married  eight  years  before,  had 
found  work  in  the  office  of  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Featherloom  Petticoat  Company. 

Old  Buck  had  watched  her  rise  from  stenog- 
rapher to  head  stenographer,  from  head  stenog- 
rapher to  inside  saleswoman,  from  that  to  a 
minor  road  territory,  and  finally  to  the  position 


CATCHING  UR  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

of  traveling  representative  through  the  coveted 
Middle-Western  territory. 

Old  T.  A.  Buck,  gruff,  grim,  direct,  far-see- 
ing, kindly,  shrewd  —  he  had  known  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  for  what  she  was  worth.  Once,  when 
she  had  been  disclosing  to  him  a  clever  business 
scheme  which  might  be  turned  into  good  adver- 
tising material,  old  Buck  had  slapped  his  knee 
with  one  broad,  thick  palm  and  had  said: 

"  Emma  McChesney,  you  ought  to  have  been 
a  man.  With  that  head  on  a  man's  shoulders, 
you  could  put  us  out  of  business." 

"  I  could  do  it  anyway,"  Mrs.  McChesney 
had  retorted. 

Old  Buck  had  regarded  her  a  moment  over 
his  tortoise-shell  rimmed  glasses.  Then,  "  I  be- 
lieve you  could,"  he  had  said,  quietly  and 
thoughtfully. 

That  brings  her  up  to  December.  To 
some  few  millions  of  people  D-e-c-e-m-b-e-r 
spells  Christmas.  But  to  Emma  McChesney  it 
spelled  the  dreaded  spring  trip.  It  spelled 
trains  stalled  in  snowdrifts,  baggage  delayed, 
cold  hotel  bedrooms,  harassed,  irritable  buyers. 

It  was  just  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  De- 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

cember  ninth  when  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney 
swung  off  the  train  at  Columbus,  Ohio,  five 
hours  late.  As  she  walked  down  the  broad 
platform  her  eyes  unconsciously  searched  the 
loaded  trucks  for  her  own  trunks.  She'd  have 
recognized  them  in  the  hold  of  a  Nile  steamer 
—  those  grim,  travel-scarred  sample-trunks. 
They  had  a  human  look  to  her.  She  had  a 
way  of  examining  them  after  each  trip,  as  a 
fond  mother  examines  her  child  for  stray 
scratches  and  bruises  when  she  puts  it  to  bed  for 
the  night.  She  knew  each  nook  and  corner  of 
the  great  trunks  as  another  woman  knows  her 
linen-closet  or  her  preserve-shelves. 

Columbus,  Ohio,  was  a  Featherloom  town. 
Emma  McChesney  had  a  fondness  for  it,  with 
its  half  rustic,  half  metropolitan  air.  Some- 
times she  likened  it  to  a  country  girl  in  a  velvet 
gown,  and  sometimes  to  a  city  girl  in  white  mus- 
lin and  blue  sash.  Singer  &  French  always  had 
a  Featherloom  window  twice  a  year. 

The  hotel  lobby  wore  a  strangely  deserted 
look.  December  is  a  slack  month  for  actors 
and  traveling  men.  Mrs.  McChesney  regis- 
tered automatically,  received  her  mail,  ex- 
changed greetings  with  the  affable  clerk. 
[200] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  Send  my  trunks  up  to  my  sample-room  as 
soon  as  they  get  in.  Three  of  'em  —  two 
sample-trunks  and  my  personal  trunk.  And  I 
want  to  see  a  porter  about  putting  up  some  extra 
tables.  You  see,  I'm  two  days  late  now.  I  ex- 
pect two  buyers  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Send  'em  right  up,  Mrs.  McChesney,"  the 
clerk  assured  her.  "  Jo'll  attend  to  those 
tables.  Too  bad  about  old  Buck.  How's  the 
skirt  business?  " 

"  Skirts?  There  is  no  such  thing,"  corrected 
Emma  McChesney  gently.  "  Sausage-casing 
business,  you  mean." 

"  Guess  you're  right,  at  that.  By  the  way, 
how's  that  handsome  youngster  of  yours?  He's 
not  traveling  with  you  this  trip?  " 

There  came  a  wonderful  glow  into  Emma 
McChesney's  tired  race. 

"  Jock's  at  college.  Coming  home  for  the 
holidays.  We're  going  to  have  a  dizzy  week 
in  New  York.  I'm  wild  to  see  if  those  three 
months  of  college  have  done  anything  to  him, 
bless  his  heart!  Oh,  kind  sir,  forgive  a 
mother's  fond  ravings !  Where'd  that  young- 
ster go  with  my  bag?  " 

Up  at  last  in  the  stuffy,  unfriendly, 
[201] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

steam-smelling  hotel  bedroom  Emma  McChes- 
ney  prepared  to  make  herself  comfortable.  A 
cocky  bell-boy  switched  on  the  lights,  adjusted  a 
shade,  straightened  a  curtain.  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney  reached  for  her  pocket-book. 

"  Just  open  that  window,  will  you?  " 

"  Pretty  cold,"  remonstrated  the  bell-boy. 
"  Beginning  to  snow,  too." 

"  Can't  help  it.  I'll  shut  it  in  a  minute. 
The  last  man  that  had  this  room  left  a  dead  ci- 
gar around  somewhere.  Send  up  a  waiter, 
please.  I'm  going  to  treat  myself  to  dinner  in 
my  room." 

The  boy  gone,  she  unfastened  her  collar, 
loosened  a  shoe  that  had  pressed  a  bit  too 
tightly  over  the  instep,  took  a  kimono  and  toil- 
ette articles  out  of  her  bag. 

"  I'll  run  through  my  mail,"  she  told  her- 
self. "  Then  I'll  get  into  something  loose,  see 
to  my  trunks,  have  dinner,  and  turn  in  early. 
Wish  Jock  were  here.  We'd  have  a  steak,  and 
some  French  fried,  and  a  salad,  and  Pd  let  the 
kid  make  the  dressing,  even  if  he  does  always 
get  in  too  much  vinegar — " 

She  was  glancing  through  her  mail.  Two 
from  the  firm  —  one  from  Mary  Cutting  — 
[202] 


CATCHING  UE  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

one  from  the  Sure-White  Laundry  at  Dayton 
(hope  they  found  that  corset-cover) — one 
from  —  why,  from  Jock !  From  Jock !  And 
he'd  written  only  two  days  before.  Well! 

Sitting  there  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  she  re- 
garded the  dear  scrawl  lovingly,  savoring  it, 
as  is  the  way  of  a  woman.  Then  she  took  a 
hairpin  from  the  knot  of  bright  hair  (also  as  is 
the  way  of  woman)  and  slit  the  envelope  with 
a  quick,  sure  rip.  M-m-m  —  it  wasn't  much 
as  to  length.  Just  a  scrawled  page.  Emma 
McChesney's  eye  plunged  into  it  hungrily,  a 
smile  of  anticipation  dimpling  her  lips,  light- 
ing up  her  face. 

"  Dearest  Blonde,"  it  began. 

("  The  nerve  of  the  young  imp!  ") 

He  hoped  the  letter  would  reach  her  in  time. 
Knew  how  this  weather  mussed  up  her  schedule. 
He  wanted  her  honest  opinion  about  something 
—  straight,  now!  One  of  the  frat  fellows  was 
giving  a  Christmas  house-party.  Awful  swells, 
by  the  way.  He  was  lucky  even  to  be  asked. 
He'd  never  remembered  a  real  Christmas  — 
in  a  home,  you  know,  with  a  tree,  and  skating, 
and  regular  high  jinks,  and  a  dinner  that  left 
you  feeling  like  a  stuffed  gooseberry.  Old 
[203] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

Wells  says  his  grandmother  wears  lace  caps 
with  lavender  ribbons.  Can  you  beat  it!  Of 
course  he  felt  like  a  hog,  even  thinking  of  want- 
ing to  stay  away  from  her  at  Christmas.  Still, 
Christmas  in  a  New  York  hotel  —  !  But  the 
fellows  had  nagged  him  to  write.  Said  they'd 
do  it  if  he  didn't.  Of  course  he  hated  to  think 
of  her  spending  Christmas  alone  —  felt  like  a 
bloody  villain  — 

Little  by  little  the  smile  that  had  wreathed 
her  lips  faded  and  was  gone.  The  lips  still 
were  parted,  but  by  one  of  those  miracles  with 
which  the  face  expresses  what  is  within  the  heart 
their  expression  had  changed  from  pleasure  to 
bitter  pain. 

She  sat  there,  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring 
dully  until  the  black  scrawls  danced  on  the 
white  page.  With  the  letter  before  her  she 
raised  her  hand  slowly  and  wiped  away  a  hot, 
blinding  mist  of  tears  with  her  open  palm. 
Then  she  read  it  again,  dully,  as  though  every 
selfish  word  of  it  had  not  already  stamped  it- 
self on  her  brain  and  heart. 

After  the  second  reading  she  still  sat  there, 
her  eyes  staring  down  at  her  lap.  Once  she 
brushed  an  imaginary  fleck  of  lint  from  the  lap 
[204] 


'She  read  it  again,  dully,  as  though  every  selfish  word  had  not 
already  stamped  itself  on  her  brain  and  heart" — Page  204 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

of  her  blue  serge  skirt  —  brushed,  and  brushed, 
and  brushed,  with  a  mechanical,  pathetic  little 
gesture  that  showed  how  completely  absent  her 
mind  was  from  the  room  in  which  she  sat. 
Then  her  hand  fell  idle,  and  she  became  very 
still,  a  crumpled,  tragic,  hopeless  look  rounding 
the  shoulders  that  were  wont  to  hold  themselves 
so  erect  and  confident. 

A  tentative  knock  at  the  door.  The  figure 
on  the  bed  did  not  stir.  Another  knock,  louder 
this  time.  Emma  McChesney  sat  up  with  a 
start.  She  shivered  as  she  became  conscious 
of  the  icy  December  air  pouring  into  the  little 
room.  She  rose,  walked  to  the  window,  closed 
it  with  a  bang,  and  opened  the  door  in  time  to 
intercept  the  third  knock. 

A  waiter  proffered  her  a  long  card.  "  Din- 
ner, Madame?  " 

"Oh!"  She  shook  her  head.  "  Sorry. 
I've  changed  my  mind.  I  —  I  shan't  want  any 
dinner." 

She  shut  the  door  again  and  stood  with  her 
back  against  it,  eying  the  bed.  In  her  mind's 
eye  she  had  already  thrown  herself  upon  it, 
buried  her  face  in  the  nest  of  pillows,  and  given 
vent  to  the  flood  of  tears  that  was  beating  at 
[207] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

her  throat.  She  took  a  quick  step  toward  the 
bed,  stopped,  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  to- 
ward the  mirror. 

"  Emma  McChesney,"  she  said  aloud  to  the 
woman  in  the  glass,  "buck  up,  old  girl!  Bad 
luck  comes  in  bunches  of  threes.  It's  like 
breaking  the  first  cup  in  a  new  Haviland  set. 
You  can  always  count  on  smashing  two  more. 
This  is  your  third.  So  pick  up  the  pieces  and 
throw  'em  in  the  ash-can." 

Then  she  fastened  her  collar,  buttoned  her 
shoe,  pulled  down  her  shirtwaist  all  around, 
smeared  her  face  with  cold  cream,  wiped  it  with 
a  towel,  smoothed  her  hair,  donned  her  hat. 
The  next  instant  the  little  room  was  dark,  and 
Emma  McChesney  was  marching  down  the 
long,  red-carpeted  hallway  to  the  elevator,  her 
head  high,  her  face  set. 

Down-stairs  in  the  lobby  —  "  How  about  my 
trunks?  "  she  inquired  of  a  porter. 

That  blue-shirted  individual  rubbed  a  hard 
brown  hand  over  his  cheek  worriedly. 

"  They  ain't  come." 

"  Ain't  come !  " —  surprise  disregarded  gram- 
mar. 

"  Nope.     No    signs    of   'em.     I'll   tell   you 

[208] 


CATCHING  UP.  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

what:  I  think  prob'ly  they  was  overlooked  in 
the  rush,  the  train  being  late  from  Dayton  when 
you  started.  Likely  they'll  be  in  on  the  ten- 
thirteen.  I'll  send  'em  up  the  minute  they  get 


in." 


"  I  wish  you  would.  I've  got  to  get  my  stuff 
out  early.  I  can't  keep  customers  waiting  for 
me.  Late,  as  it  is." 

She  approached  the  clerk  once  more.  "  Any- 
thing at  the  theaters?  " 

"  Well,  nothing  much,  Mrs.  McChesney.- 
Christmas  coming  on  kind  of  puts  a  crimp  in  the 
show  business.  Nice  little  bill  on  at  the  Ma- 
jestic, if  you  like  vaudeville." 

"  Crazy  about  it.  Always  get  so  excited 
watching  to  see  if  the  next  act  is  going  to  be  as- 
rotten  as  the  last  one.  It  always  is." 

From  eight-fifteen  until  ten-thirty  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney  sat  absolutely  expressionless  while  a 
shrill  blonde  lady  and  a  nasal  dark  gentleman 
went  through  what  the  program  ironically 
called  a  "  comedy  sketch,"  followed  by  a  chum- 
my person  who  came  out  in  evening  dress  to 
sing  a  sentimental  ditty,  shed  the  evening  dress 
to  reappear  in  an  ankle-length  fluffy  pink  affair; 
shucked  the  fluffy  pink  affair  for  a  child's  pina- 
[209] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

fore,  sash,  and  bare  knees ;  discarded  the  kiddie 
frock,  disclosing  a  bathing-suit;  left  the  bathing- 
suit  behind  the  wings  in  favor  of  satin  knee- 
breeches  and  tight  jacket  —  and  very  discreetly 
stopped  there,  probably  for  no  reason  except  to 
give  way  to  the  next  act,  consisting  of  two 
miraculously  thin  young  men  in  lavender  dress 
suits  and  white  silk  hats,  who  sang  and  clogged 
in  unison,  like  two  things  hung  on  a  single  wire. 

The  night  air  was  grateful  to  her  hot  fore- 
head as  she  walked  from  the  theater  to  the 
hotel. 

''  Trunks  in?  "  to  the  porter. 

"  No  sign  of  'em,  lady.  They  didn't  come 
in  on  the  ten.  Think  they'd  better  wire  back 
to  Dayton." 

But  the  next  morning  Mrs.  McChesney  was 
in  the  depot  baggage-room  when  Dayton  wired 
back: 

'  Trunks  not  here.  Try  Columbus,  Ne- 
braska." 

"Crash!"  said  Emma  McChesney  to  the 
surprised  baggage-master.  "  There  goes  my 
Haviland  vegetable-dish." 

"Were  you  selling  china?"  he  inquired. 

"  No,  I  wasn't,"  replied  Emma  McChesney 
[210] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

viciously.  "  And  if  you  don't  let  me  stand  here 
and  give  my  frank,  unbiased  opinion  of  this 
road,  its  president,  board  of  directors,  stock- 
holders, baggage-men,  Pullman  porters,  and 
other  things  thereto  appertaining,  I'll  probably 
have  hysterics." 

"  Give  it,"  said  the  baggage-master.  "  You'll 
feel  better.  And  we're  used  to  it." 

She  gave  it.     When  she  had  finished: 

"  Did  you  say  you  was  selling  goods  on  the 
road?  Say,  that's  a  hell  of  a  job  for  a  woman! 
Excuse  me,  lady.  I  didn't  mean — " 

"  I  think  perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Emma 
McChesney  slowly.  "  It  is  just  that." 

"  Well,  anyway,  we'll  do  our  best  to  trace  it. 
Guess  you're  in  for  a  wait." 

Emma  McChesney  waited.  She  made  the 
rounds  of  her  customers,  and  waited.  She 
wired  her  firm,  and  waited.  She  wrote  Jock  to 
run  along  and  enjoy  himself,  and  waited.  She 
cut  and  fitted  a  shirt-waist,  took  her  hat  apart 
and  retrimmed  it,  made  the  rounds  of  her  im- 
patient customers  again,  threatened  to  sue  the 
road,  visited  the  baggage-room  daily  —  and 
waited. 

Four  weary,  nerve-racking  days  passed.     It 

[211] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

was  late  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  when  Mrs. 
McChesney  entered  the  elevator  to  go  to  her 
room.  She  had  come  from  another  fruitless 
visit  to  the  baggage-room.  She  sank  into  a 
leather-cushioned  seat  in  a  corner  of  the  lift. 
Two  men  entered  briskly,  followed  by  a  bell- 
boy. Mrs.  McChesney  did  not  look  up. 

"Well,  I'll  be  dinged!"  boomed  a  throaty 
voice.  "  Mrs.  McChesney,  by  the  Great  Horn 
Spoon!  H'are  you?  Talking  about  you  this 
minute  to  my  friend  here." 

Emma  McChesney,  with  the  knowledge  of 
her  lost  sample-trunks  striking  her  afresh, 
looked  up  and  smiled  bravely  into  the  plump 
pink  face  of  Fat  Ed  Meyers,  traveling  repre- 
sentative for  her  firm's  bitterest  rival,  the  Strauss 
Sans-silk  Skirt  Company. 

"Talking  about  me,  Mr.  Meyers?  Suf- 
ficient grounds  for  libel,  right  there." 

The  little  sallow,  dark  man  just  at  Meyers* 
elbow  was  gazing  at  her  unguardedly.  She 
felt  that  he  had  appraised  her  from  hat  to  heels. 
Ed  Meyers  placed  a  plump  hand  on  the  little 
man's  shoulder. 

"  Abe,  you  tell  the  lady  what  I  was  saying. 
This  is  Mr.  Abel  Fromkin,  maker  of  the  From- 

[212] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

kin  Form-Fit  Skirt.  Abe,  this  is  the  wonder- 
ful Mrs.  McChesney." 

"  Sorry  I  can't  wait  to  hear  what  you've  said 
of  me.  This  is  my  floor."  Mrs.  McChesney 
was  already  leaving  the  elevator. 

"  Here!  Wait  a  minute!  "  Fat  Ed  Mey- 
ers was  out  and  standing  beside  her,  his  move- 
ments unbelievably  nimble.  "  Will  you  have 
dinner  with  us,  Mrs.  McChesney?  " 

"  Thanks.     Not  to-night." 

Meyers  turned  to  the  waiting  elevator. 
*'  Fromkin,  you  go  on  up  with  the  boy;  I'll 
talk  to  the  lady  a  minute." 

A  little  displeased  frown  appeared  on  Emma 
McChesney's  face. 

"  You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Meyers, 
I—" 

"  Heigh-ho  for  that  haughty  stuff,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney," grinned  Ed  Meyers.  "  Don't  turn 
up  your  nose  at  that  little  Kike  friend  of  mine 
till  you've  heard  what  I  have  to  say.  Now  just 
let  me  talk  a  minute.  Fromkin's  heard  all 
about  you.  He's  got  a  proposition  to  make. 
And  it  isn't  one  to  sniff  at." 

He  lowered  his  voice  mysteriously  in  the 
silence  of  the  dim  hotel  corridor. 


CATCHING  UR  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  Fromkin  started  in  a  little  one-room  hole- 
in-the-wall  over  on  the  East  Side.  Lived  on  a 
herring  and  a  hunk  of  rye  bread.  Wife  used 
to  help  him  sew.  That  was  seven  years  ago. 
In  three  years,  or  less,  she'll  have  the  regula- 
tion uniform  —  full  length  seal  coat,  bunch  of 
paradise,  five-drop  diamond  La  Valliere  set  in 
platinum,  electric  brougham.  Abe  has  got  a 
business  head,  take  it  from  me.  But  he's  wise 
enough  to  know  that  business  isn't  the  rough- 
and-tumble  game  it  used  to  be.  He  realizes 
that  he'll  do  for  the  workrooms,  but  not  for  the 
front  shop.  He  knows  that  if  he  wants  to  keep 
on  growing  he's  got  to  have  what  they  call  a 
steerer.  Somebody  smooth,  and  polished,  and 
politic,  and  what  the  highbrows  call  suave.  Do 
you  pronounce  that  with  a  long  a,  or  two  dots 
over?  Anyway,  you  get  me.  You're  all  those 
things  and  considerable  few  besides.  He's 
wise  to  the  fact  that  a  business  man's  got  to 
have  poise  these  days,  and  balance.  And  when 
it  comes  to  poise  and  balance,  Mrs.  McChesney, 
you  make  a  Fairbanks  scale  look  like  a  raft  at 


sea." 


"  While  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  hurry  you," 
drawled  Mrs.   McChesney,   "  might  I  suggest 


CATCHING  UP,  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

that  you  shorten  the  overture  and  begin  on  the 
first  act?" 

"  Well,  you  know  how  I  feel  about  your 
business  genius." 

*  Yes,  I  know,"  enigmatically. 

Ed  Meyers  grinned.  "  Can't  forget  those 
two  little  business  misunderstandings  we  had,, 
can  you  ?  " 

"  Business  understandings,"  corrected  Emma 
McChesney. 

"  Call  'em  anything  your  little  heart  dictates, 
but  listen.  Fromkin  knows  all  about  you. 
Knows  you've  got  a  million  friends  in  the  trade, 
that  you  know  skirts  from  the  belt  to  the  hem. 
I  don't  know  just  what  his  proposition  is,  but 
I'll  bet  he'll  give  you  half  interest  in  the  livest, 
come-upest  little  skirt  factory  in  the  country, 
just  for  a  few  thousands  capital,  maybe,  and 
your  business  head  at  the  executive  end.  Now 
just  let  that  sink  in  before  you  speak." 

"  And  why,"  inquired  Emma  McChesney, 
"  don't  you  grab  this  matchless  business  oppor- 
tunity yourself?  " 

"  Because,  fair  lady,  Fromkin  wouldn't  let 
me  get  in  with  a  crowbar.  He'll  never  be  able 
to  pronounce  his  t's  right,  and  when  he's  dressed 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

up  he  looks  like  a  'bus-boy  at  Mouquin's,  but 
he  can  see  a  bluff  farther  than  I  can  throw  one 
—  and  that's  somewhere  beyond  the  horizon,  as 
you'll  admit.  Talk  it  over  with  us  after  dinner 
then?" 

Emma  McChesney  was  regarding  the  plump, 
pink,  eager  face  before  her  with  keen,  level, 
searching  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  will." 

"  Cafe?     We'll  have  a  bottle  — " 

"  No." 

"Oh!     Er  — parlor?" 

Mrs.  McChesney  smiled.  "  I  won't  ask  you 
to  make  yourself  that  miserable.  You  can't 
smoke  in  the  parlor.  We'll  find  a  quiet  corner 
in  the  writing-room,  where  you  men  can  light 
up.  I  don't  want  to  take  advantage  of  you." 

Down  in  the  writing-room  at  eight  they 
formed  a  strange  little  group.  Ed  Meyers, 
flushed  and  eager,  his  pink  face  glowing  like  a 
peony,  talking,  arguing,  smoking,  reasoning, 
coaxing,  with  the  spur  of  a  fat  commission  to 
urge  him  on;  Abel  Fromkin,  with  his  peculiarly 
pallid  skin  made  paler  in  contrast  to  the  pur- 
plish-black line  where  the  razor  had  passed, 


'Not  that  you  look  your  age — not  by  ten  years !'  " — Page  217 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

showing  no  hint  of  excitement  except  in  the  rest- 
less little  black  eyes  and  in  the  work-scarred 
hands  that  rolled  cigarette  after  cigarette,  each 
glowing  for  one  brief  instant,  only  to  die  down 
to  a  blackened  ash  the  next;  Emma  McChesney, 
half  fascinated,  half  distrustful,  listening  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  trying  to  still  a  small  in- 
ner voice  —  a  voice  that  had  never  advised  her 
ill. 

"  You  know  the  ups  and  downs  to  this  game," 
Ed  Meyers  was  saying.  "  When  I  met  you 
there  in  the  elevator  you  looked  like  you'd  lost 
your  last  customer.  You  get  pretty  disgusted 
with  it  all,  at  times,  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"  At  that  minute,"  replied  Emma  McChes- 
ney, "  I  was  so  disgusted  that  if  some  one  had 
called  me  up  on  the  'phone  and  said,  '  Hullo, 
Mrs.  McChesney !  Will  you  marry  me?  '  I'd 
have  said:  *  Yes.  Who  is  this?  '  " 

"  There !  That's  just  it.  I  don't  want  to 
be  impolite,  or  anything  like  that,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney, but  you're  no  kid.  Not  that  you  look 
your  age  —  not  by  ten  years !  But  I  happen  to 
know  you're  teetering  somewhere  between 
thirty-six  and  the  next  top.  Ain't  that 
right?" 

[217] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  Is  that  a  argument  to  put  to  a  lady?  " 
remonstrated  Abel  Fromkin. 

Fat  Ed  Meyers  waved  the  interruption  away 
with  a  gesture  of  his  strangely  slim  hands. 

"  This  ain't  an  argument.  It's  facts.  An- 
other ten  years  on  the  road,  and  where'll  you 
be?  In  the  discard.  A  man  of  forty-six  can 
keep  step  with  the  youngsters,  even  if  it  does 
make  him  puff  a  bit.  But  a  woman  of  forty- 
six  —  the  road  isn't  the  place  for  her.  She's 
tired.  Tired  in  the  morning;  tired  at  night. 
She  wants  her  kimono  and  her  afternoon  snooze. 
You've  seen  some  of  those  old  girls  on  the  road. 
They've  come  down  step  by  step  until  you  spot 
'em,  bleached  hair,  crow's-feet  around  the  eyes, 
mussy  shirt-waist,  yellow  and  red  complexion, 
demonstrating  green  and  lavender  gelatine 
messes  in  the  grocery  of  some  department  store. 
I  don't  say  that  a  brainy  corker  of  a  saleswoman 
like  you  would  come  down  like  that.  But 
you've  got  to  consider  sickness  and  a  lot  of  other 
things.  Those  six  weeks  last  summer  with  the 
fever  at  Glen  Rock  put  a  crimp  in  you,  didn't 
it?  You've  never  been  yourself  since  then. 
Haven't  had  a  decent  chance  to  rest  up." 

"  No,"  said  Emma  McChesney  wearily. 

[218] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  Furthermore,  now  that  old  T.  A.'s  cashed 
in,  how  do  you  know  what  young  Buck's  going 
to  do?  He  don't  know  shucks  about  the  skirt 
business.  They've  got  to  take  in  a  third  party 
to  keep  it  a  close  corporation.  It  was  all  be- 
tween old  Buck,  Buck  junior,  and  old  lady  Buck. 
How  can  you  tell  whether  the  new  member  will 
want  a  woman  on  the  road,  or  not?  " 

A  little  steely  light  hardened  the  blue  of  Mrs. 
McChesney's  eyes. 

"  We'll  leave  the  firm  of  T.  A.  Buck  out  of 
this  discussion,  please." 

"  Oh,  very  well!"  Ed  Meyers  was  un- 
abashed. "  Let's  talk  about  Fromkin.  He 
don't  object,  do  you,  Abe?  It's  just  like  this. 
He  needs  your  smart  head.  You  need  his 
money.  It'll  mean  a  sure  thing  for  you  —  a 
share  in  a  growing  and  substantial  business. 
When  you  get  your  road  men  trained  it'll  mean 
that  you  won't  need  to  go  out  on  the  road  your- 
self, except  for  a  little  missionary  trip  now  and 
then,  maybe.  No  more  infernal  early  trains. 
no  more  bum  hotel  grub,  no  more  stuffy,  hot 
hotel  rooms,  no  more  haughty  lady  buyers  — 
gosh,  I  wish  I  had  the  chance !  " 

Emma  McChesney  sat  very  still.  Two  scar- 
[219] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

let  spots  glowed  in  her  cheeks.  "  No  one  ap- 
preciates your  gift  of  oratory  more  than  I  do, 
Mr.  Meyers.  Your  flow  of  language,  coupled 
with  your  peculiar  persuasive  powers,  make  a 
combination  a  statue  couldn't  resist.  But  I 
think  it  would  sort  of  rest  me  if  Mr.  Fromkin 
were  to  say  a  word,  seeing  that  it's  really  his 
funeral." 

Abel  Fromkin  started  nervously,  and  put  his 
dead  cigarette  to  his  lips.  "  I  ain't  much  of  a 
talker,"  he  said,  almost  sheepishly.  "  Meyers, 
he's  got  it  down  fine.  I  tell  you  what.  I'll  be 
in  New  York  the  twenty-first.  We  can  go  over 
the  books  and  papers  and  the  whole  business. 
And  I  like  you  should  know  my  wife.  And  I 
got  a  little  girl —  Would  you  believe  it,  that 
child  ain't  more  as  a  year  old,  and  says  Papa 
and  Mama  like  a  actress !  " 

"  Sure,"  put  in  Ed  Meyers,  disregarding  the 
more  intimate  family  details.  "  You  two  get 
together  and  fix  things  up  in  shape;  then  you 
can  sign  up  and  have  it  off  your  mind  so  you 
can  enjoy  the  festive  Christmas  season." 

Emma  McChesney  had  been  gazing  out  of 
the  window  to  where  the  street-lamps  were  re- 
[220] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

fleeted  in  the  ice-covered  pavements.  Now  she 
spoke,  still  staring  out  upon  the  wintry  street. 

"  Christmas  isn't  a  season.  It's  a  feeling. 
And  I  haven't  got  it." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  McChesney!"  ob- 
jected Ed  Meyers. 

With  a  sudden,  quick  movement  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney turned  from  the  window  to  the  little 
dark  man  who  was  watching  her  so  intently. 
She  faced  him  squarely,  as  though  utterly  dis- 
regarding Ed  Meyers'  flattery  and  banter  and 
cajolery.  The  little  man  before  her  seemed  to 
recognize  the  earnestness  of  the  moment.  He 
leaned  forward  a  bit  attentively. 

"  If  what  has  been  said  is  true,"  she  began, 
"  this  ought  to  be  a  good  thing  for  me.  If  I 
go  into  it,  I'll  go  in  heart,  soul,  brain,  and 
pocket-book.  I  do  know  the  skirt  business  from 
thread  to  tape  and  back  again.  I've  managed 
to  save  a  few  thousand  dollars.  Only  a  woman 
could  understand  how  I've  done  it.  I've 
scrimped  on  little  things,  I've  denied  myself 
necessities.  I've  worn  silk  blouses  instead  of 
linen  ones  to  save  laundry-bills  and  taken  a 
street-car  or  'bus  to  save  a  quarter  or  fifty  cents.. 

[221] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

I've  always  tried  to  look  well  dressed  and  im- 
maculate — " 

"You!"  exclaimed  Ed  Meyers.  "  Why, 
say,  you're  what  I  call  a  swell  dresser.  Noth- 
ing flashy,  understand,  or  loud,  but  the  quiet, 
good  stuff  that  spells  ready  money." 

"  M-m-m — yes.  But  it  wasn't  always  so 
ready.  Anyway,  I  always  managed  somehow. 
The  boy's  at  college.  Sometimes  I  wonder  — 
well,  that's  another  story.  I've  saved,  and  con- 
trived, and  planned  ahead  for  a  rainy  day. 
There  have  been  two  or  three  times  when  I 
thought  it  had  come.  Sprinkled  pretty  heavily, 
once  or  twice.  But  IVe  just  turned  up  my  coat- 
collar,  tucked  my  hat  under  my  skirt,  and  scooted 
for  a  tree.  And  each  time  it  has  turned  out  to 
be  just  a  summer  shower,  with  the  sun  coming 
out  bright  and  warm." 

Her  frank,  clear,  honest,  blue  eyes  were 
plumbing  the  depths  of  the  black  ones.  "  Those 
few  thousand  dollars  that  you  hold  so  lightly 
will  mean  everything  to  me.  They've  been  my 
cyclone-cellar.  If — " 

Through  the  writing-room  sounded  a  high- 
pitched,  monotonous  voice  with  a  note  of  in- 
quiry in  it. 

[222] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"Mrs.  McChesney!  Mr.  Eraser!  Mr. 
Ludwig!  Please!  Mrs.  McChesney!  Mr. 
Fraser!  Mr.  Lud— " 

"  Here,  boy!"  Mrs.  McChesney  took  the 
little  yellow  envelope  from  the  salver  that  the 
boy  held  out  to  her.  Her  quick  glance  rested 
on  the  written  words.  She  rose,  her  face  color- 
less. 

"  Not  bad  news?"  The  two  men  spoke 
simultaneously. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emma  McChesney. 
"  What  would  you  say?  " 

She  handed  the  slip  of  paper  to  Fat  Ed  Mey- 
ers. He  read  it  in  silence.  Then  once  more, 
aloud: 

"  *  Take  first  train  back  to  New  York.  Spalding 
will  finish  your  trip.'  " 

"  Why  —  say  —  "  began  Meyers. 
"Well?" 

"  Why  —  say  —  this  —  this  looks  as  if  you 
were  fired!  " 

"  Does,  doesn't  it?  "     She  smiled. 
'  Then   our  little   agreement   goes?"     The 
two    men    were    on    their    feet,    eager,    alert. 
"That  means  you'll  take  Fromkin's  offer?" 
[223] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  It  means  that  our  little  agreement  is  off, 
I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  I  want  to  thank 
you  both  for  your  trouble.  I  must  have  been 
crazy  to  listen  to  you  for  a  minute.  I  wouldn't 
have  if  I'd  been  myself." 

"  But  that  telegram — " 

"It's  signed,  '  T.  A.  Buck/  I'll  take  a 
chance." 

The  two  men  stared  after  her,  disappoint- 
ment and  bewilderment  chasing  across  each  face. 

"Well,  I  thought  I  knew  women,  but — " 
began  Ed  Meyers  fluently. 

Passing  the  desk,  Mrs.  McChesney  heard 
her  name.  She  glanced  toward  the  clerk.  He 
was  just  hanging  up  the  telephone-receiver. 
"  Baggage-room  says  the  depot  just  notified  'em 
your  trunks  were  traced  to  Columbia  City. 
They're  on  their  way  here  now." 

"  Columbia  City !  "  repeated  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney. "  Do  you  know,  I  believe  IVe 
learned  to  hate  the  name  of  the  discoverer  of 
this  fair  land." 

Up  in  her  room  she  opened  the  crumpled 
telegram  again,  and  regarded  it  thoughtfully 
before  she  began  to  pack  her  bag. 

The  thoughtful  look  was  still  there  when  she 
[224] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

entered  the  big  bright  office  of  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Featherloom  Petticoat  Company.  And  with  it 
was  another  expression  that  resembled  contri- 
tion. 

"  Mr.  Buck's  waiting  for  you,"  a  stenog- 
rapher told  her. 

Mrs.  McChesney  opened  the  door  of  the  of- 
fice marked  "  Private." 

Two  men  rose.  One  she  recognized  as  the 
firm's  lawyer.  The  other,  who  came  swiftly 
toward  her,  was  T.  A.  Buck  —  no  longer  junior. 
There  was  a  new  look  about  him  —  a  look  of 
responsibility,  of  efficiency,  of  clear-headed 
knowledge. 

The  two  clasped  hands  —  a  firm,  sincere, 
understanding  grip. 

Buck  spoke  first.  "  It's  good  to  see  you. 
We  were  talking  of  you  as  you  came  in.  You 
know  Mr.  Beggs,  of  course.  He  has  some 
things  to  tell  you  —  and  so  have  I.  His  will 
be  business  things,  mine  will  be  personal.  I  got 
there  before  father  passed  away  —  thank  God  I 
But  he  couldn't  speak.  He'd  anticipated  that 
with  his  clear-headedness,  and  he'd  written  what 
he  wanted  to  say.  A  great  deal  of  it  was  about 
you.  I  want  you  to  read  that  letter  later." 
[225] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

"  I  shall  consider  it  a  privilege,"  said  Emma 
McChesney. 

Mr.  Beggs  waved  her  toward  a  chair.  She 
took  it  in  silence.  She  heard  him  in  silence,  his 
-sonorous  voice  beating  upon  her  brain. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  papers  and  much 
business  detail,  but  that  will  be  attended  to 
later,"  began  Beggs  ponderously.  u  You  are 
to  be  congratulated  on  the  position  of  esteem 
and  trust  which  you  held  in  the  mind  of  your 
late  employer.  By  the  terms  of  his  will  —  I'll 
put  it  briefly,  for  the  moment  —  you  are  offered 
the  secretaryship  of  the  firm  of  T.  A.  Buck,  In- 
corporated. Also  you  are  bequeathed  thirty 
.shares  in  the  firm.  Of  course,  the  company 
will  have  to  be  reorganized.  The  late  Mr. 
Buck  had  great  trust  in  your  capabilities." 

Emma  McChesney  rose  to  her  feet,  her 
breath  coming  quickly.  She  turned  to  T.  A. 
Buck.  "  I  want  you  to  know  —  I  want  you  to 
know  —  that  just  before  your  telegram  came  I 
was  half  tempted  to  leave  the  firm.  To  — " 

"  Can't  blame  you,"  smiled  T.  A.  Buck. 
"  YouVe  had  a  rotten  six  months  of  it,  begin- 
ning with  that  illness  and  ending  with  those  in- 

[226] 


CATCHING  UP  WITH  CHRISTMAS 

fernal    trunks.     The    road's    no    place    for    a 


woman." 


"Nonsense!"  flashed  Emma  McChesney. 
"  I've  loved  it.  I've  gloried  in  it.  And  I've 
earned  my  living  by  it.  Giving  it  up  —  don't 
now  think  me  ungrateful  —  won't  be  so  easy,  I 
can  tell  you." 

T.  A.  Buck  nodded  understandingly.  "  I 
know.  Father  knew  too.  And  I  don't  want 
you  to  let  his  going  from  us  make  any  difference 
in  this  holiday  season.  I  want  you  to  enjoy  it 
and  be  happy." 

A  shade  crossed  Emma  McChesney's  face. 
It  was  there  when  the  door  opened  and  a  boy 
entered  with  a  telegram.  He  handed  it  to  Mrs. 
McChesney.  It  held  ten  crisp  words : 

Changed  my  darn  fool  mind.  Me  for  home  and 
mother. 

Emma  McChesney  looked  up,  her  face  ra- 
diant. 

"  Christmas  isn't  a  season,  Mr.  Buck.  It's 
a  feeling;  and,  thank  God,  I've  got  it!  " 


[229] 


IX 
KNEE-DEEP   IN  KNICKERS 

'IT7HEN  the  column  of  figures  under  the 
heading  known  as  "  Profits,"  and  the  col- 
umn of  figures  under  the  heading  known  as 
"  Loss "  are  so  unevenly  balanced  that  the 
wrong  side  of  the  ledger  sags,  then  to  the  lis- 
tening stockholders  there  comes  the  painful 
thought  that  at  the  next  regular  meeting  it  is 
perilously  possible  that  the  reading  may  come 
under  the  heads  of  Assets  and  Liabilities. 

There  had  been  a  meeting  in  the  offices  of 
the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Com- 
pany, New  York.  The  quarterly  report  had 
had  a  startlingly  lop-sided  sound.  After  it  was 
over  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  secretary  of  the 
company,  followed  T.  A.  Buck,  its  president, 
into  the  big,  bright  show-room.  T.  A.  Buck's 
hands  were  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets.  His 
teeth  worried  a  cigar,  savagely.  Care,  that 
[230] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

clawing,  mouthing  hag,  perched  on  his  brow,, 
tore  at  his  heart. 

He  turned  to  face  Emma  McChesney. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "  it  hasn't  taken 
us  long,  has  it?  Father's  been  dead  a  little  over 
a  year.  In  that  time  we've  just  about  run  this 
great  concern,  the  pride  of  his  life,  into  the 
ground." 

Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  calm,  cool,  unruf- 
fled, scrutinized  the  harassed  man  before  her 
for  a  long  minute. 

"  What  rotten  football  material  you  would 
have  made,  wouldn't  you?"  she  observed. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  T.  A.  Buck, 
through  his  teeth.  "  I  can  stand  as  stiff  a  scrim- 
mage as  the  next  one.  But  this  isn't  a  game. 
You  take  things  too  lightly.  You're  a  woman.. 
I  don't  think  you  know  what  this  means." 

Emma  McChesney's  lips  opened  as  do  those 
of  one  whose  tongue's  end  holds  a  quick  and 
stinging  retort.  Then  they  closed  again.  She 
walked  over  to  the  big  window  that  faced  the 
street.  When  she  had  stood  there  a  moment, 
silent,  she  swung  around  and  came  back  to 
where  T.  A.  Buck  stood,  still  wrapped  in  gloom- 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

"  Maybe  I  don't  take  myself  seriously.  I'd 
have  been  dead  ten  years  ago  if  I  had.  But  I 
do  take  my  job  seriously.  Don't  forget  that 
for  a  minute.  You  talk  the  way  a  man  always 
talks  when  his  pride  is  hurt." 

"  Pride!     It  isn't  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  I  didn't  sell  T.  A.  Buck's 
Featherloom  Petticoats  on  the  road  for  almost 
ten  years  without  learning  a  little  something 
about  men  and  business.  When  your  father 
died,  and  I  learned  that  he  had  shown  his  ap- 
preciation of  my  work  and  loyalty  by  making 
me  secretary  of  this  great  company,  I  didn't 
think  of  it  as  a  legacy  —  a  stroke  of  good  for- 
tune." 

"No?" 

"  No.  To  me  it  was  a  sacred  trust  —  some- 
thing to  be  guarded,  nursed,  cherished.  And 
now  you  say  we've  run  this  concern  into  the 
ground.  Do  you  honestly  think  that?  " 

T.  A.  shrugged  impotent  shoulders.  "  Fig- 
ures don't  lie."  He  plunged  into  another 
fathom  of  gloom.  "  Another  year  like  this 
and  we're  done  for." 

Emma  McChesney  came  over  and  put  one 
firm  hand  on  T.  A.  Buck's  drooping  shoulder. 
[232] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

It  was  a  strange  little  act  for  a  woman  —  the 
sort  of  thing  a  man  does  when  he  would  hearten 
another  man. 

"  Wake  up !  "  she  said,  lightly.  "  Wake  up, 
and  listen  to  the  birdies  sing.  There  isn't  going 
to  be  another  year  like  this.  Not  if  the  plan- 
ning, and  scheming,  and  brain-racking  that  I've 
been  doing  for  the  last  two  or  three  months 
mean  anything." 

T.  A.  Buck  seated  himself  as  one  who  is 
weary,  body  and  mind. 

"  Got  another  new  one?  " 

Emrna  McChesney  regarded  him  a  moment 
thoughtfully.  Then  she  stepped  to  the  tall 
show-case,  pushed  back  the  sliding  glass  door, 
and  pointed  to  the  rows  of  brilliant-hued  petti- 
coats that  hung  close-packed  within. 

"  Look  at  'em !  "  she  commanded,  disgust  in 
her  voice.  "  Look  at  'em !  " 

T.  A.  Buck  raised  heavy,  lack-luster  eyes  and 
looked.  What  he  saw  did  not  seem  to  interest 
him.  Emma  McChesney  drew  from  the  rack 
a  skirt  of  king's  blue  satin  messaline  and  held  it 
at  arm's  length. 

"  And  they  call  that  thing  a  petticoat !  Why, 
fifteen  years  ago  the  material  in  this  skirt 
[233] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

wouldn't  have  made  even  a  fair-sized  sleeve." 

T.  A.  Buck  regarded  the  petticoat  moodily. 

*'  I  don't  see  how  they  get  around  in  the  darned 

things.     I   honestly   don't  see  how  they  wear 


'em." 


"  That's  just  it.  They  don't  wear  'em. 
There  you  have  the  root  of  the  whole  trouble." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  "  disputed  T.  A.  "  They 
certainly  wear  something  —  some  sort  of  an  — " 

"  I  tell  you  they  don't.  Here.  Listen. 
Three  years  ago  our  taffeta  skirts  ran  from  thirty- 
six  to  thirty-eight  yards  to  the  dozen.  We  paid 
from  ninety  cents  to  one  dollar  five  a  yard. 
Now  our  skirts  run  from  twenty-five  to  twenty- 
>eight  yards  to  the  dozen.  The  silk  costs  us 
from  fifty  to  sixty  cents  a  yard.  Silk  skirts  used 
to  be  a  luxury.  Now  they're  not  even  a  neces- 
sity." 

"Well,  what's  the  answer?  I've  been  pon- 
dering some  petticoat  problems  myself.  I  know 
we've  got  to  sell  three  skirts  to-day  to  make  the 
profit  that  we  used  to  make  on  one  three  years 
ago." 

Emma   McChesney  had  the  brave-hearted- 
ness  to  laugh.      '  This  skirt  business   reminds 
ane  of  a  game  we  used  to  play  when  I  was  a  kid. 
[234] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

We  called  it  Going  to  Jerusalem,  I  think.  Any- 
way, I  know  each  child  sat  in  a  chair  except  the 
one  who  was  It.  At  a  signal  everybody  had  to 
get  up  and  change  chairs.  There  was  a  wild 
scramble,  in  which  the  one  who  was  It  took  part. 
When  the  hurly-burly  was  over  some  child  was 
always  chairless,  of  course.  He  had  to  be  It. 
That's  the  skirt  business  to-day.  There  aren't 
enough  chairs  to  go  round,  and  in  the  scramble 
somebody's  got  to  be  left  out.  And  let  me  tell 
you,  here  and  now,  that  the  firm  of  T.  A.  Buck, 
Featherloom  Petticoats,  is  not  going  to  be  It." 

T.  A.  rose  as  wearily  as  he  had  sat  down. 
Even  the  most  optimistic  of  watchers  could  have 
discerned  no  gleam  of  enthusiasm  on  his  face. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said  listlessly,  "  that  you  and 
I  had  tried  every  possible  scheme  to  stimulate 
the  skirt  trade." 

"  Every  possible  one,  yes,"  agreed  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney,  sweetly.  "  And  now  it's  time  to  try 
the  impossible.  The  possibilities  haven't 
worked.  My  land!  I  could  write  a  book  on 
the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Petticoat,  beginning 
with  the  billowy  white  muslin  variety,  and  work- 
ing up  to  the  present  slinky  messaline  affair. 
When  I  think  of  those  dear  dead  days  of  the 

[235] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

glorious  —  er  —  past,  when  the  hired  girl  used 
to  complain  and  threaten  to  leave  because  every 
woman  in  the  family  had  at  least  three  ruffled, 
embroidery-flounced  white  muslin  petticoats  on 
the  line  on  Mondays — " 

The  lines  about  T.  A.  Buck's  mouth  relaxed 
into  a  grim  smile. 

"  Remember  that  feature  you  got  them  to  run 
in  the  Sunday  Sphere?  The  one  headed  '  Are 
Skirts  Growing  Fuller,  and  Where?5 

"  Do  I  remember  it!"  wailed  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney.  "  And  can  I  ever  forget  the  money 
we  put  into  that  fringed  model  we  called  the 
Carmencita !  We  made  it  up  so  it  could  retail 
for  a  dollar  ninety-five,  and  I  could  have  sworn 
that  the  women  would  maim  each  other  to  get 
to  it.  But  it  didn't  go.  They  won't  even  wear 
fringe  around  their  ankles." 

T.  A.'s  grim  smile  stretched  into  a  reminiscent 
grin.  "  But  nothing  in  our  whole  hopeless  cam- 
paign could  touch  your  Municipal  Purity  League 
agitation  for  the  abolition  of  the  form-hugging 
skirt.  You  talked  public  morals  until  you  had 
A.  Comstock  and  Lucy  Page  Gaston  looking 
like  Parisian  Apaches." 

A  little  laugh  rippled  up  to  Emma  McChes- 
[236] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

ney's  lips,   only  to   die   away  to   a   sigh.     She 
shook  her  head  in  sorrowful  remembrance. 

"Yes.  But  what  good  did  it  do?  The 
newspapers  and  magazines  did  take  it  up,  but 
what  happened?  The  dressmakers  and  tailors, 
who  are  charging  more  than  ever  for  their 
work,  and  putting  in  half  as  much  material,  got 
together  and  knocked  my  plans  into  a  cocked 
hat.  In  answer  to  those  snap-shots  showing 
what  took  place  every  time  a  woman  climbed  a 
car  step,  they  came  back  with  pictures  of  the 
styles  of  '6 1,  proving  that  the  street-car  effect 
is  nothing  to  what  happened  to  a  belle  of  '61  if 
she  chanced  to  sit  down  or  get  up  too  suddenly 
in  the  hoop-skirt  days." 

They  were  both  laughing  now,  like  a  couple 
of  children.  "  And,  oh,  say!  "  gasped  Emma, 
"  remember  Moe  Selig,  of  the  Fine-Form  Skirt 
Company,  trying  to  get  the  doctors  to  state  that 
hobble  skirts  were  making  women  knock-kneed ! 
Oh,  mercy !  " 

But  their  laugh  ended  in  a  little  rueful  si- 
lence. It  was  no  laughing  matter,  this  situation. 
T.  A.  Buck  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  began 
a  restless  pacing  up  and  down.  "  Yep.  There 
you  are.  Meanwhile  — " 
[237] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

"  Meanwhile,  women  are  still  wearing  'em 
tight,  and  going  petticoatless." 

Suddenly  T.  A.  stopped  short  in  his  pacing 
and  fastened  his  surprised  and  interested  gaze 
on  the  skirt  of  the  trim  and  correct  little  business 
frock  that  sat  so  well  upon  Emma  McChesney's 
pretty  figure. 

"Why,  look  at  that!  "  he  exclaimed,  and 
pointed  with  one  eager  finger. 

"  Mercy !"  screamed  Emma  McChesney. 
"  What  is  it?  Quick!  A  mouse?  " 

T.  A.  Buck  shook  his  head,  impatiently. 
"  Mouse!  Lord,  no!  Plaits!" 

"Plaits!" 

She  looked  down,  bewildered. 

"  Yes.  In  your  skirt.  Three  plaits  at  the 
front-left,  and  three  in  the  back.  That's  new, 
isn't  it?  If  outer  skirts  are  being  made  fuller, 
then  it  follows  — " 

"  It  ought  to  follow,"  interrupted  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney, "  but  it  doesn't.  It  lags  way  behind. 
These  plaits  are  stitched  down.  See?  That's 
the  fiendishness  of  it.  And  the  petticoat  un- 
derneath —  if  there  is  one  —  must  be  just  as 
smooth,  and  unwrinkled,  and  scant  as  ever. 
Don't  let  'em  fool  you." 

[238] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

Buck  spread  his  palms  with  a  little  gesture 
of  utter  futility. 

"  I'm  through.  Out  with  your  scheme. 
We're  ready  for  it.  It's  our  last  card,  what- 
ever it  is." 

There  was  visible  on  Emma  McChesney's 
face  that  little  tightening  of  the  muscles,  that 
narrowing  of  the  eyelids  which  betokens  intense 
earnestness;  the  gathering  of  all  the  forces  be- 
fore taking  a  momentous  step.  Then,  as 
quickly,  her  face  cleared.  She  shook  her  head 
with  a  little  air  of  sudden  decision. 

"  Not  now.  Just  because  it's  our  last  card 
I  want  to  be  sure  that  I'm  playing  it  well.  I'll 
be  ready  for  you  to-morrow  morning  in  my  of- 
fice. Come  prepared  for  the  jolt  of  your  young 
life." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the 
conversation  a  glow  of  new  courage  and  hope 
lighted  up  T.  A.  Buck's  good-looking  features. 
His  fine  eyes  rested  admiringly  upon  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  standing  there  by  the  great  show-case. 
She  seemed  to  radiate  energy,  alertness,  confi- 
dence. 

"  When  you  begin  to  talk  like  that,"  he  said, 
"  I  always  feel  as  though  I  could  take  hold  in  a 
[239] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

way  to  make  those  famous  jobs  that  Hercules 
tackled  look  like  little  Willie's  chores  after 
school." 

"  Fine  I  "  beamed  Emma  McChesney.  "  Just 
store  that  up,  will  you?  And  don't  let  it  filter 
out  at  your  finger-tips  when  I  begin  to  talk  to- 


morrow." 


"We'll  have  lunch  together,  eh?  And  talk 
it  over  then  sociably." 

Mrs.  McChesney  closed  the  glass  door  of  the 
case  with  a  bang. 

"  No,  thanks.     My  office  at  9  130." 

T.  A.  Buck  followed  her  to  the  door.  "  But 
why  not  lunch  ?  You  never  will  take  lunch  with 
me.  Ever  so  much  more  comfortable  to  talk 
things  over  that  way — " 

"  When  I  talk  business,"  said  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney, pausing  at  the  threshold,  "  I  want  to 
be  surrounded  by  a  business  atmosphere.  I 
want  the  scene  all  set  —  one  practical  desk,  two 
practical  chairs,  one  telephone,  one  letter-basket, 
one  self-filling  fountain-pen,  et  cetera.  And 
when  I  lunch  I  want  to  lunch,  with  nothing 
weightier  on  my  mind  than  the  question  as  to 
whether  I'll  have  chicken  livers  saute  or  creamed 
sweetbreads  with  mushrooms." 
[240] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

"  That's  no  reason,"  grumbled  T.  A. 
"  That's  an  excuse." 

"  It  will  have  to  do,  though,"  replied  Mrs. 
McChesney  abruptly,  and  passed  out  as  he  held 
the  door  open  for  her.  He  was  still  standing 
in  the  doorway  after  her  trim,  erect  figure  had 
disappeared  into  the  little  office  across  the  hall. 

The  little  scarlet  leather  clock  on  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney's  desk  pointed  to  9  129  A.M.  when  there 
entered  her  office  an  immaculately  garbed, 
miraculously  shaven,  healthily  rosy  youngish- 
middle-aged  man  who  looked  ten  years  younger 
than  the  harassed,  frowning  T.  A.  Buck  with 
whom  she  had  almost  quarreled  the  evening  be- 
fore. Mrs.  McChesney  was  busily  dictating  to 
a  sleek  little  stenographer.  The  sleek  little 
stenographer  glanced  up  at  T.  A.  Buck's  en- 
trance. The  glance,  being  a  feminine  one,  em- 
braced all  of  T.  A.'s  good  points  and  approved 
them  from  the  tips  of  his  modish  boots  to  the 
crown  of  his  slightly  bald  head,  and  including 
the  creamy-white  flower  that  reposed  in  his  but- 
tonhole. 

"  'Morning!  "  said  Emma  McChesney,  look- 
ing up   briefly.     "  Be  with  you   in   a   minute, 
and  in  reply  would  say  we  regret  that 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

you  have  had  trouble  with  No.  339.  It  is  im- 
possible to  avoid  pulling  at  the  seams  in  the 
lower-grade  silk  skirts  when  they  are  made  up 
in  the  present  scant  style.  Our  Mr.  Spalding 
warned  you  of  this  at  the  time  of  your  purchase. 
We  will  not  under  any  circumstances  consent  to 
receive  the  goods  if  they  are  sent  back  on  our 
hands.  Yours  sincerely.  That'll  be  all,  Miss 
Casey." 

She  swung  around  to  face  her  visitor  as  the 
door  closed.  If  T.  A.  Buck  looked  ten  years 
younger  than  he  had  the  afternoon  before, 
Emma  McChesney  undoubtedly  looked  five 
years  older.  There  were  little,  worried,  sag- 
ging lines  about  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

T.  A.  Buck's  eyes  had  followed  the  sheaf  of 
signed  correspondence,  and  the  well-filled  pad 
of  more  recent  dictation  which  the  sleek  little 
stenographer  had  carried  away  with  her. 

"  Good  Lord !  It  looks  as  though  you  had 
stayed  down  here  all  night." 

Emma   McChesney   smiled  a  little  wearily. 

"  Not  quite  that.     But  I  was  here  this  morning 

in  time  to  greet  the  night  watchman.     Wanted 

to  get  my  mail  out  of  the  way."     Her  eyes 

[242] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

searched  T.  A.  Buck's  serene  face.     Then  she 
leaned  forward,  earnestly. 

"  Haven't  you  seen  the  morning  paper?  " 

"  Just  a  mere  glance  at  'em.  Picked  up 
Burrows  on  the  way  down,  and  we  got  to  talk- 
ing. Why?" 

"  The  Rasmussen-Welsh  Skirt  Company  has 
failed.  Liabilities  three  hundred  thousand. 
Assets  one  hundred  thousand." 

"Failed!  Good  God!"  All  the  rosy 
color,  all  the  brisk  morning  freshness  had  van- 
ished from  his  face.  "  Failed !  Why,  girl,  I 
thought  that  concern  was  as  solid  as  Gibraltar." 
He  passed  a  worried  hand  over  his  head. 
"  That  knocks  the  wind  out  of  my  sails." 

"  Don't  let  it.  Just  say  that  it  fills  them  with 
a  new  breeze.  I'm  all  the  more  sure  that  the 
time  is  ripe  for  my  plan." 

T.  A.  Buck  took  from  a  vest  pocket  a  scrap 
of  paper  and  a  fountain  pen,  slid  down  in  his 
chair,  crossed  his  legs,  and  began  to  scrawl 
meaningless  twists  and  curlycues,  as  was  his 
wont  when  worried  or  deeply  interested. 

"  Are  you  as  sure  of  this  scheme  of  yours 
as  you  were  yesterday?" 
[243] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

"  Sure,"  replied  Emma  McChesney,  briskly. 
"  Sartin-sure." 

u  Then  fire  away." 

Mrs.  McChesney  leaned  forward,  breathing 
a  trifle  fast.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  on  her 
listener. 

"Here's  the  plan.  We'll  make  Feather- 
loom  Petticoats  because  there  still  are  some 
women  who  have  kept  their  senses.  But  we'll 
make  them  as  a  side  line.  The  thing  that  has 
got  to  keep  us  afloat  until  full  skirts  come  in 
again  will  be  a  full  and  complete  line  of  women's 
satin  messaline  knickerbockers  made  up  to 
match  any  suit  or  gown,  and  a  full  line  of  pa- 
jamas for  women  and  girls.  Get  the  idea? 
Scant,  smart,  trim  little  taupe-gray  messaline 
knickers  for  a  taupe  gray  suit,  blue  messaline 
for  blue  suits,  brown  messaline  for  brown  — " 

T.  A.  Buck  stared,  open-mouthed,  the  paper 
on  which  he  had  been  scrawling  fluttering  un- 
noticed to  the  floor. 

"  Look  here !  "  he  interrupted.  "  Is  this 
supposed  to  be  humorous?" 

"  And,"  went  on  Emma  McChesney,  calmly, 
"  in  our  full  and  complete,  not  to  say  nifty  line 
of  women's  pajamas  —  pink  pajamas,  blue  pa- 
[244] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

jamas,  violet  pajamas,  yellow  pajamas,  white 
silk—" 

T.  A.  Buck  stood  up.  "  I  want  to  say,"  he 
began,  "  that  if  you  are  jesting,  I  think  this  is 
a  mighty  poor  time  to  joke.  And  if  you  are 
serious  I  can  only  deduce  from  it  that  this  year 
of  business  worry  and  responsibility  has  been 
too  much  for  you.  I'm  sure  that  if  you 
were—" 

"  That's  all  right,"  interrupted  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney.  "  Don't  apologize.  I  purposely 
broke  it  to  you  this  way,  when  I  might  have  ap- 
proached it  gently.  You've  done  just  what  I 
knew  you'd  do,  so  it's  all  right.  After  you've 
thought  it  over,  and  sort  of  got  chummy  with 
the  idea,  you'll  be  just  as  keen  on  it  as  I  am." 

"Never!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  It's  the  knickerbocker 
end  of  it  that  scares  you.  Nothing  new  or 
startling  about  pajamas,  except  that  more  and 
more  women  are  wearing  'em,  and  that  no  girl 
would  dream  of  going  away  to  school  without 
her  six  sets  of  pajamas.  Why,  a  girl  in  a  reg- 
ulation nightie  at  one  of  their  midnight  spreads 
would  be  ostracized.  Of  course  I've  thought 
up  a  couple  of  new  kinks  in  'em  —  new  ways  of 

[245] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

cutting  and  all  that,  and  there's  one  model  —  a 
washable  crepe,  for  traveling,  that  doesn't  need 
to  be  pressed  —  but  I'll  talk  about  that  later." 

T.  A.  Buck  was  trying  to  put  in  a  word  of 
objection,  but  she  would  have  none  of  it.  But 
at  Emma  McChesney's  next  words  his  indigna- 
tion would  brook  no  barriers. 

"  Now,"  she  went  on,  "  the  feature  of  the 
knickerbockers  will  be  this :  They've  got  to  be 
ready  for  the  boys'  spring  trip,  and  in  all  the 
larger  cities,  especially  in  the  hustling  Middle- 
Western  towns,  and  along  the  coast,  too,  I'rri 
planning  to  have  the  knickerbockers  introduced 
at  private  and  exclusive  exhibitions,  and  worn 
by  —  get  this,  please  —  worn  by  living  models. 
One  big  store  in  each  town,  see?  Half  a  dozen 
good-looking  girls  — " 

"Never!"  shouted  T.  A.  Buck,  white  and 
shaking.  "  Never !  This  firm  has  always  had 
a  name  for  dignity,  solidness,  conservatism  — n 

"  Then  it's  just  about  time  it  lost  that  reputa- 
tion. It's  all  very  well  to  hang  on  to  your  dig- 
nity when  you're  on  solid  ground,  but  when  you 
feel  things  slipping  from  under  you  the  thing 
to  do  is  to  grab  on  to  anything  that'll  keep  you 
on  your  feet  for  a  while  at  least.  I  tell  you  the 

[246] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

women  will  go  wild  over  this  knickerbocker 
idea.  They've  been  waiting  for  it." 

"  It's  a  wild-cat  scheme,"  disputed  Buck 
hotly.  "  It's  a  drowning  man's  straw,  and  just 
about  as  helpful.  I'm  a  reasonable  man  — " 

"  All  unreasonable  men  say  that,"  smiled 
Emma  McChesney. 

" —  I'm  a  reasonable  man,  I  say.  And 
heaven  knows  I  have  the  interest  of  this  firm  at 
heart.  But  this  is  going  too  far.  If  we're  go- 
ing to  smash  we'll  go  decently,  and  with  our 
name  untarnished.  Pajamas  are  bad  enough. 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  firm  of  T.  A.  Buck  be- 
ing represented  by  —  by  —  living  model  hus- 
sies stalking  about  in  satin  tights  like  chorus 
girls,  why — " 

In  Emma  McChesney's  alert,  electric  mind 
there  leapt  about  a  dozen  plans  for  winning  this 
man  over.  For  win  him  she  would,  in  the  end. 
It  was  merely  a  question  of  method.  She  chose 
the  simplest.  There  was  a  set  look  about  her 
jaw.  Her  eyes  flashed.  Two  spots  of  car- 
mine glowed  in  her  cheeks. 

"  I  expected  just  this,"  she  said.  "  And  I 
prepared  for  it."  She  crossed  swiftly  to  her 
desk,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  a  flat  pack- 

[247] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

age.  "  I  expected  opposition.  That's*  why  I 
had  these  samples  made  up  to  show  you.  I  de- 
signed them  myself,  and  tore  up  fifty  patterns 
before  I  struck  one  that  suited  me.  Here  are 
the  pajamas." 

She  lifted  out  a  dainty,  shell-pink  garment, 
and  shook  it  out  before  the  half-interested,  half- 
unwilling  eyes  of  T.  A.  Buck. 

"This  is  the  jacket.  Buttons  on  the  left; 
see?  Instead  of  the  right,  as  it  would  in  a 
man's  garment.  Semi-sailor  collar,  with  knot- 
ted soft  silk  scarf.  Oh,  it's  just  a  little  kink, 
but  they'll  love  it.  They're  actually  becoming. 
I've  tried  'em.  Notice  the  frogs  and  cord. 
Pretty  neat,  yes?  Slight  flare  at  the  hips. 
Makes  'em  set  and  hang  right.  Perfectly 
straight,  like  a  man's  coat." 

T.  A.  Buck  eyed  the  garments  with  a  grudg- 
ing admiration. 

"  Oh,  that  part  of  it  don't  sound  so  unreason- 
able, although  I  don't  believe  there  is  much  of 
a  demand  for  that  kind  of  thing.  But  the  other 
—  the  —  the  knickerbocker  things  —  that's  not 
even  practical.  It  will  make  an  ugly  garment, 
and  the  women  who  would  fall  for  a  fad  like 
that  wouldn't  be  of  the  sort  to  wear  an  ugly 

[248] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

piece  of  lingerie.  It  isn't  to  be  thought  of  seri- 
ously — " 

Emma  McChesney  stepped  to  the  door  of 
the  tiny  wash-room  off  her  office  and  threw  it 
open. 

"  Miss  La  Noyes !     We're  ready  for  you." 

And  there  emerged  from  the  inner  room  a 
trim,  lithe,  almost  boyishly  slim  figure  attired 
in  a  bewitchingly  skittish-looking  garment  con- 
sisting of  knickerbockers  and  snug  brassiere  of 
king's  blue  satin  messaline.  Dainty  black  silk 
stockings  and  tiny  buckled  slippers  set  off  the 
whole  effect. 

"  Miss  La  Noyes,"  said  Emma  McChesney, 
almost  solemnly,  "  this  is  Mr.  T.  A.  Buck,  presi- 
dent of  the  firm.  Miss  La  Noyes,  of  the  4  Gay 
Social  Whirl '  company." 

Miss  La  Noyes  bowed  slightly  and  rested  one 
white  hand  at  her  side  in  an  attitude  of  non- 
chalant ease. 

"  Pleased,  I'm  shaw !  "  she  said,  in  a  clear, 
high  voice. 

And,  "  Charmed,"  replied  T.  A.  Buck,  his 
years  and  breeding  standing  him  in  good  stead 
now. 

Emma  McChesney  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  the 
[249] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

•girl's  shoulder.  "  Turn  slowly,  please.  Ob- 
serve the  absence  of  unnecessary  fulness  about 
the  hips,  or  at  the  knees.  No  wrinkles  to  show 
there.  No  man  will  ever  appreciate  the  fine 
points  of  this  little  garment,  but  the  women!  — • 
To  the  left,  Miss  La  Noyes.  You'll  see  it  fas- 
tens snug  and  trim  with  a  tiny  clasp  just  below 
the  knees.  This  garment  has  the  added  at- 
traction of  being  fastened  to  the  upper  garment, 
a  tight  satin  brassiere.  The  single,  unattached 
.garment  is  just  as  satisfactory,  however. 
Women  are  wearing  plush  this  year.  Not  only 
for  the  street,  but  for  evening  dresses.  I  rather 
think  they'll  fancy  a  snappy  little  pair  of  yellow 
satin  knickers  under  a  gown  of  the  new  orange 
plush.  Or  a  taupe  pair,  under  a  gray  street  suit. 
Or  a  natty  little  pair  of  black  satin,  finished  and 
piped  in  white  satin,  to  be  worn  with  a  black 
and  white  shopping  costume.  Why,  I  haven't 
worn  a  petticoat  since  I  — " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  burst  from  the 
long-pent  T.  A.  Buck,  "  that  you  wear  'em 
too?" 

"  Crazy  about  'em.  Miss  La  Noyes,  will  you 
just  slip  on  your  street  skirt,  please?  " 

She  waited  in  silence  until  the  demure  Miss 
[250] 


'No  man  will  ever  appreciate  the  fine  paints  of  this  little  gar- 
ment, but  the  women — !'  " — Page  250 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

La  Noyes  reappeared.  A  narrow,  straight- 
hanging,  wrinkleless  cloth  skirt  covered  the 
much  discussed  under-garment.  '  Turn  slowly, 
please.  Thanks.  You  see,  Mr.  Buck?  Not 
a  wrinkle.  No  bunchiness.  No  lumps.  No 
crawling  up  about  the  knees.  Nothing  but  ease, 
and  comfort,  and  trim  good  looks." 

T.  A.  Buck  passed  his  hand  over  his  head  in 
a  dazed,  helpless  gesture.  There  was  some- 
thing pathetic  in  his  utter  bewilderment  and 
helplessness  in  contrast  with  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  breezy  self-confidence,  and  the  show-girl's 
cool  poise  and  unconcern. 

( Wait  a  minute,"  he  murmured,  almost 
pleadingly.  "  Let  me  ask  a  couple  of  questions, 
will  you?  " 

"Questions?  A  hundred.  That  proves- 
you're  interested." 

'*  Well,  then,  let  me  ask  this  young  lady  the 
first  one.  Miss  —  er  —  La  Noyes,  do  you  hon- 
estly and  truly  like  this  garment?  Would  you 
buy  one  if  you  saw  it  in  a  shop  window?  " 

Miss  La  Noyes'  answer  came  trippingly  and 
without  hesitation.  She  did  not  even  have  to 
feel  of  her  back  hair  first. 

"  Say,  I'd  go  without  my  lunch  for  a  week  to 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

get  it.  Mrs.  McChesney  says  I  can  have  this 
pair.  I  can't  wait  till  our  prima  donna  sees 
'em.  She'll  hate  me  till  she's  got  a  dozen  like 


'em." 


"Next!"  urged  Mrs.  McChesney,  pleas- 
antly. 

But  T.  A.  Buck  shook  his  head.  "  That's 
all.  Only  — " 

Emma  McChesney  patted  Miss  La  Noyes 
lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and  smiled  dazzlingly 
upon  her.  "  Run  along,  little  girl.  You've 
done  beautifully.  And  many  thanks." 

Miss  La  Noyes,  appearing  in  another  mo- 
ment dressed  for  the  street,  stopped  at  the  door 
to  bestow  a  frankly  admiring  smile  upon  the  ab- 
stracted president  of  the  company,  and  a  grate- 
ful one  upon  its  pink-cheeked  secretary. 

"  Hope  you'll  come  and  see  our  show  some 
evening.  You  won't  know  me  at  first,  because 
I  wear  a  blond  wig  in  the  first  scene.  Third 
from  the  left,  front  row."  And  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney: "I  cer'nly  did  hate  to  get  up  so 
early  this  morning,  but  after  you're  up  it  ain't 
so  fierce.  And  It  cer'nly  was  easy  money. 
Thanks." 

Emma  McChesney  glanced  quickly  at  T.  A., 
[252] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

saw  that  he  was  pliant  enough  for  the  molding 
process,  and  deftly  began  to  shape,  and  bend, 
and  smooth  and  pat. 

"  Let's  sit  down,  and  unravel  the  kinks  in 
our  nerves.  Now,  if  you  do  favor  this  new 
plan  —  oh,  I  mean  after  you've  given  it  consid- 
eration, and  all  that!  Yes,  indeed.  But  if 
you  do,  I  think  it  would  be  good  policy  to 
start  the  game  in  —  say  —  Cleveland.  The 
Kaufman-Oster  Company  of  Cleveland  have  a 
big,  snappy,  up-to-the-minute  store.  We'll  get 
them  to  send  out  announcement  cards.  Some- 
thing neat  and  flattering-looking.  See?  Little 
stage  all  framed  up.  Scene  set  to  show  a  bed- 
room or  boudoir.  Then,  thin  girls,  plump  girls, 
short  girls,  high  girls.  They'll  go  through  all 
the  paces.  We  won't  only  show  the  knicker- 
bockers :  we  demonstrate  how  the  ordinary  pet- 
ticoat bunches  and  crawls  up  under  the  heavy 
plush  and  velvet  top  skirt.  We'll  show  'em  ini 
street  clothes,  evening  clothes,  afternoon  frocks. 
Each  one  in  a  different  shade  of  satin  knicker. 
And  silk  stockings  and  cunning  little  slippers  to 
match.  The  store  will  stand  for  that.  It's  a 
big  ad  for  them,  too." 

Emma  McChesney's  hair  was  slightly  tousled. 

[253] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

Her  cheeks  were  carmine.     Her  eyes  glowed. 

"  Don't  you  see!  Don't  you  get  it!  Can't 
you  feel  how  the  thing's  going  to  take  hold?  " 

"  By  Gad!  "  burst  from  T.  A.  Buck,  "  I'm 
darned  if  I  don't  believe  you're  right  —  almost 
—  But  are  you  sure  that  you  believe  — " 

Emma  McChesney  brought  one  little  white 
'fist  down  into  the  palm  of  the  other  hand. 
'"  Sure?  Why,  I'm  so  sure  that  when  I  shut  my 
eyes  I  can  see  T.  A.  Senior  sitting  over  there  in 
that  chair,  tapping  the  side  of  his  nose  with  the 
edge  of  his  tortoise-shell-rimmed  glasses,  and 
nodding  his  head,  with  his  features  all  screwed 
up  like  a  blessed  old  gargoyle,  the  way  he  al- 
ways did  when  something  tickled  him.  That's 
how  sure  I  am." 

T.  A.  Buck  stood  up  abruptly.  He  shrugged 
;his  shoulders.  His  face  looked  strangely  white 
and  drawn.  "  I'll  leave  it  to  you.  I'll  do  my 
•share  of  the  work.  But  I'm  not  more  than  half 
convinced,  remember." 

'*  That's  enough  for  the  present,"  answered 
Emma  McChesney,  briskly.  "  Well,  now,  sup- 
pose we  talk  machinery  and  girls,  and  cutters  for 
,a  while." 

Two  months  later  found  T.  A.  Buck  and  his 

[254] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

sales-manager,  both  shirt-sleeved,  both  smoking 
nervously,  as  they  marked,  ticketed,  folded,  ar- 
ranged. They  were  getting  out  the  travelers* 
spring  lines.  Entered  Mrs.  McChesney,  and 
stood  eying  them,  worriedly.  It  was  her 
dozenth  visit  to  the  stock-room  that  morning. 
A  strange  restlessness  seemed  to  trouble  her.. 
She  wandered  from  office  to  show-room,  from 
show-room  to  factory. 

"  What's  the  trouble?  "  inquired  T.  A.  Buck,, 
squinting  up  at  her  through  a  cloud  of  cigar 
smoke. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  answered  Mrs.  McChesney,, 
and  stood  fingering  the  piles  of  glistening  satin, 
garments,  a  queer,  faraway  look  in  her  eyes. 
Then  she  turned  and  walked  listlessly  toward 
the  door.  There  she  encountered  Spalding  — 
Billy  Spalding,  of  the  coveted  Middle-Western 
territory,  Billy  Spalding,  the  long-headed,  quick- 
thinking;  Spalding,  the  persuasive,  Spalding  the 
mixer,  Spalding  on  whom  depended  the  fate  of 
the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Knickerbocker  and 
Pajama. 

"  'Morning!  When  do  you  start  out?  "  she 
asked  him. 

"  In   the   morning.     Gad,   that's   some  line,, 

[255] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

what?  I'm  itching  to  spread  it.  You're  cer- 
tainly a  wonder-child,  Mrs.  McChesney.  Why, 
the  boys  — " 

Emma  McChesney  sighed,  somberly. 
"That  line  does  sort  of — well,  tug  at  your 
heart-strings,  doesn't  it?  "  She  smiled,  almost 
wistfully.  "  Say,  Billy,  when  you  reach  the 
Eagle  House  at  Waterloo,  tell  Annie,  the  head- 
waitress  to  rustle  you  a  couple  of  Mrs.  Traudt's 
dill  pickles.  Tell  her  Mrs.  McChesney  asked 
you  to.  Mrs.  Traudt,  the  proprietor's  wife, 
doles  'em  out  to  her  favorites.  They're  crisp, 
you  know,  and  firm,  and  juicy,  and  cold,  and 
briny." 

Spalding  drew  a  sibilant  breath.  "  I'll  be 
there !  "  he  grinned.  "  I'll  be  there !  " 

But  he  wasn't.  At  eight  the  next  morning 
there  burst  upon  Mrs.  McChesney  a  distraught 
T.  A.  Buck. 

"Hear  about  Spalding?"  he  demanded. 

"Spalding?     No." 

"  His  wife  'phoned  from  St.  Luke's.  Taken 
with  an  appendicitis  attack  at  midnight.  They 
operated  at  five  this  morning.  One  of  those 
had  -  it  -  been  -  twenty  -  four  -  hours  -  later  -  etc. 
operations.  That  settles  us." 

[256] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

"  Poor  kid,"  replied  Emma  McChesney. 
"  Rough  on  him  and  his  brand-new  wife." 

"Poor  kid!  Yes.  But  how  about  his  ter- 
ritory? How  about  our  new  line?  How 
about — " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Emma  McChes- 
ney, cheerfully. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  how !  We  haven't  a  man 
equal  to  the  territory.  He's  our  one  best  bet." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  McChesney 
again,  smoothly. 

A  little  impatient  exclamation  broke  from  T. 
A.  Buck.  At  that  Emma  McChesney  smiled. 
Her  new  listlessness  and  abstraction  seemed  to 
drop  from  her.  She  braced  her  shoulders,  and 
smiled  her  old  sunny,  heartening  smile. 

"  I'm  going  out  with  that  line.  I'm  going  to 
leave  a  trail  of  pajamas  and  knickerbockers 
from  Duluth  to  Canton." 

"You!  No,  you  won't!"  A  dull,  painful 
red  had  swept  into  T.  A.  Buck's  face.  It  was 
answered  by  a  flood  of  scarlet  in  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney's  countenance. 

"  I  don't  get  you,"  she  said.  "  I'm  afraid 
you  don't  realize  what  this  trip  means.  It's  go- 
ing to  be  a  fight.  They'll  have  to  be  coaxed 

[257] 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

and  bullied   and  cajoled,    and  reasoned  with. 
It's  going  to  be  a  '  show-me  '  trip." 

T.    A.    Buck    took    a    quick    step    forward. 

'  That's  just  why.     I  won't  have  you  fighting 

with  buyers,  taking  their  insults,  kowtowing  to 

them,    salving    them.     It  —  it    isn't    woman's 

work." 

Emma  McChesney  was  sorting  the  contents 
of  her  desk  with  quick,  nervous  fingers.  "  I'll 
get  the  Twentieth  Century,"  she  said,  over  her 
shoulder.  "  Don't  argue,  please.  If  it's  no 
work  for  a  woman  then  I  suppose  it  follows 
that  I'm  unwomanly.  For  ten  years  I  traveled 
this  country  selling  T.  A.  Buck's  Featherloom 
Petticoats.  My  first  trip  on  the  road  I  was 
in  the  twenties  —  and  pretty,  too.  I'm  a 
woman  of  thirty-seven  now.  I'll  never  forget 
that  first  trip  —  the  heartbreaks,  the  insults  I 
endured,  the  disappointments,  the  humiliation, 
until  they  understood  that  I  meant  business  — 
strictly  business.  I'm  tired  of  hearing  you  men 
say  that  this  and  that  and  the  other  isn't 
woman's  work.  Any  work  is  woman's  work 
that  a  woman  can  do  well.  I've  given  the  ten 
best  years  of  my  life  to  this  firm.  Next  to  my 
boy  at  school  it's  the  biggest  thing  in  my  life. 

[258] 


"'Emma  McChesney    ...     I  believe  in  you  now!     Dad  and  I 
both  believe  in  ycru"  " — Page  262 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

Sometimes  it  swamps  even  him.  Don't  come 
to  me  with  that  sort  of  talk."  She  was  locking 
drawers,  searching  pigeon-holes,  skimming 
files.  '  This  is  my  busy  day."  She  arose,  and 
shut  her  desk  with  a  bang,  locked  it,  and  turned 
a  flushed  and  beaming  face  toward  T.  A.  Buck, 
as  he  stood  frowning  before  her. 

"  Your  father  believed  in  me  —  from  the 
ground  up.  We  understood  each  other,  he  and 
I.  You've  learned  a  lot  in  the  last  year  and  a 
half,  T.  A.  Junior-that-was,  but  there's  one 
thing  you  haven't  mastered.  When  will  you 
learn  to  believe  in  Emma  McChesney?  " 

She  was  out  of  the  office  before  he  had  time 
to  answer,  leaving  him  standing  there. 

In  the  dusk  of  a  late  winter  evening  just 
three  weeks  later,  a  man  paused  at  the  door  of 
the  unlighted  office  marked  "  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney." He  looked  about  a  moment,  as  though 
dreading  detection.  Then  he  opened  the  door, 
stepped  into  the  dim  quiet  of  the  little  room,  and 
closed  the  door  gently  after  him.  Everything 
in  the  tiny  room  was  quiet,  neat,  orderly.  It 
seemed  to  possess  something  of  the  character 
of  its  absent  owner.  The  intruder  stood  there 
a  moment,  uncertainly,  looking  about  him. 


KNEE-DEEP  IN  KNICKERS 

Then  he  took  a  step  forward  and  laid  one  hand 
on  the  back  of  the  empty  chair  before  the 
closed  desk.  He  shut  his  eyes  and  it  seemed 
that  he  felt  her  firm,  cool,  reassuring  grip  on 
his  fingers  as  they  clutched  the  wooden  chair. 
The  impression  was  so  strong  that  he  kept  his 
eyes  shut,  and  they  were  still  closed  when  his 
voice  broke  the  silence  of  the  dim,  quiet  little 
room. 

u  Emma  McChesney,"  he  was  saying  aloud, 
"  Emma  McChesney,  you  great  big,  fine,  brave, 
wonderful  woman,  you !  I  believe  in  you  now ! 
Dad  and  I  both  believe  in  you." 


[262] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 


is  a  love-story.  But  it  is  a  love-story 
with  a  logical  ending.  Which  means 
that  in  the  last  paragraph  no  one  has  any  one 
else  in  his  arms.  Since  logic  and  love  have 
long  been  at  loggerheads,  the  story  may  end 
badly.  Still,  what  love  passages  there  are  shall 
be  left  intact.  There  shall  be  no  trickery. 
There  shall  be  no  running  breathless,  flushed, 
eager-eyed,  to  the  very  gateway  of  Love's  gar- 
den, only  to  bump  one's  nose  against  that  baf- 
fling, impregnable,  stone-wall  phrase  of  "  let  us 
draw  a  veil,  dear  reader."  This  is  the  story 
of  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman,  a  mother  for 
her  son,  and  a  boy  for  a  girl.  And  there  shall 
be  no  veil. 

Since  8  A.  M.,  when  she  had  unlocked  her  of- 
fice door,  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney  had  been 
working  in  bunches  of  six.  Thus,  from  twelve 
to  one  she  had  dictated  six  letters,  looked  up 

[263] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

memoranda,  passed  on  samples  of  petticoat 
silk,  fired  the  office-boy,  wired  Spalding  out  in 
Nebraska,  and  eaten  her  lunch.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  was  engaged  in  that  nerve-racking 
process  known  as  getting  things  out  of  the  way. 
When  Emma  McChesney  aimed  to  get  things 
out  of  the  way  she  did  not  use  a  shovel;  she 
used  a  road-drag. 

Now,  at  three-thirty,  she  shut  the  last  desk- 
drawer  with  a  bang,  locked  it,  pushed  back  the 
desk-phone,  discovered  under  it  the  inevitable 
mislaid  memorandum,  scanned  it  hastily, 
tossed  the  scrap  of  paper  into  the  brimming 
waste-basket,  and,  yawning,  raised  her  arms 
high  above  her  head.  The  yawn  ended,  her 
arms  relaxed,  came  down  heavily,  and  landed 
her  hands  in  her  lap  with  a  thud.  It  had  been 
a  whirlwind  day.  At  that  moment  most  of  the 
lines  in  Emma  McChesney's  face  slanted  down- 
ward. 

But  only  for  that  moment.  The  next  found 
her  smiling.  Up  went  the  corners  of  her 
mouth !  Out  popped  her  dimples !  The 
laugh-lines  appeared  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 
She  was  still  dimpling  like  an  anticipatory  child 
when  she  had  got  her  wraps  from  the  tiny 

[264]' 


"It  had  been  a  whirlwind  day"— Page  26$ 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

closet,  and  was  standing  before  the  mirror,  ad- 
justing her  hat. 

The  hat  was  one  of  those  tiny,  pert,  head- 
hugging  trifles  that  only  a  very  pretty  woman 
can  wear.  A  merciless  little  hat,  that  gives  no 
quarter  to  a  blotched  skin,  a  too  large  nose, 
colorless  eyes.  Emma  McChesney  stood  be- 
fore the  mirror,  the  cruel  little  hat  perched  atop 
her  hair,  ready  to  give  it  the  final  and  critical 
bash  which  should  bring  it  down  about  her  ears 
where  it  belonged.  But  even  now,  perched 
grotesquely  atop  her  head  as  it  was,  you  could 
see  that  she  was  going  to  get  away  with  it. 

It  was  at  this  critical  moment  that  the  office 
door  opened,  and  there  entered  T.  A.  Buck, 
president  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petti- 
coat and  Lingerie  Company.  He  entered  smil- 
ing, leisurely,  serene-eyed,  as  one  who  antici- 
pates something  pleasurable.  At  sight  of 
Emma  McChesney  standing,  hatted  before  the 
mirror,  the  pleasurable  look  became  less  con- 
fident. 

"  Hello!  "  said  T.  A.  Buck.  "  Whither?  " 
and  laid  a  sheaf  of  businesslike-looking  papers 
on  the  top  of  Mrs.  McChesney's  well  cleared 
desk. 

[267] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

Mrs.  McChesney,  without  turning,  per- 
formed the  cramming  process  successfully,  so 
that  her  hat  left  only  a  sub-halo  of  fluffy  bright 
hair  peeping  out  from  the  brim. 

Then,  "  Playing  hooky,"  she  said.  "  Go 
'way." 

T.  A.  Buck  picked  up  the  sheaf  of  papers 
and  stowed  them  into  an  inside  coat-pocket. 
"  As  president  of  this  large  and  growing  con- 
cern," he  said,  "  I  want  to  announce  that  I'm 
;going  along." 

Emma  McChesney  adjusted  her  furs.  "  As 
secretary  of  said  firm  I  rise  to  state  that  you're 
not  invited." 

T.  A.  Buck,  hands  in  pockets,  stood  survey- 
ing the  bright-eyed  woman  before  him.  The 
pleasurable  expression  had  returned  to  his  face. 

"  If  the  secretary  of  the  above-mentioned 
company  has  the  cheek  to  play  hooky  at  3  130 
P.M.  in  the  middle  of  November,  I  fancy  the 
president  can  demand  to  know  where  she's  go- 
ing, and  then  go  too." 

Mrs.  McChesney  unconcernedly  fastened  the 
clasp  of  her  smart  English  glove. 

"  Didn't  you  take  two  hours  for  lunch? 
Had  mine,  off  the  top  of  my  desk.  Ham  sand- 
[268] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

wich  and  a  glass  of  milk.  Dictated  six  letters 
between  bites  and  swallows. " 

A  frown  of  annoyance  appeared  between  T. 
A.  Buck's  remarkably  fine  eyes.  He  came 
over  to  Mrs.  McChesney  and  looked  down  at 
her. 

"  Look  here,  you'll  kill  yourself.  It's  all 
very  well  to  be  interested  in  one's  business,  but 
I  draw  the  line  at  ruining  my  digestion  for  it. 
Why  in  Sam  Hill  don't  you  take  a  decent  hour 
at  least?  " 

"  Only  bricklayers  can  take  an  hour  for 
lunch,"  retorted  Emma  McChesney.  "  When 
you  get  to  be  a  lady  captain  of  finance  you  can't 
afford  it." 

She  crossed  to  her  desk  and  placed  her  fin- 
gers on  the  electric  switch.  The  desk-light  cast 
a  warm  golden  glow  on  the  smart  little  figure 
in  the  trim  tailored  suit,  the  pert  hat,  the  shin- 
ing furs.  She  was  rosy-cheeked  and  bright- 
eyed  as  a  schoolgirl.  There  was  about  her  that 
vigor,  and  glow,  and  alert  assurance  which  be- 
speaks congenial  work;  sound  sleep,  healthy  di- 
gestion, and  a  sane  mind.  She  was  as  tingling, 
and  bracing,  and  alive,  and  antiseptic  as  the 
crisp,  snappy  November  air  outdoors. 

[269] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

T.  A.  Buck  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  looked 
at  her. 

"  Those  are  devastating  clothes,"  he  re- 
marked. "  D'you  know,  until  now  I  always 
had  an  idea  that  furs  weren't  becoming  to 
women.  Make  most  of  'em  look  stuffy.  But 
you  — " 

Emma  McChesney  glanced  down  at  the  shin- 
ing skins  of  muff  and  scarf.  She  stroked  them 
gently  and  lovingly  with  her  gloved  hand. 

"M-m-m-m!  These  semi-precious  furs  are 
rather  satisfactory  —  until  you  see  a  woman  in 
sealskin  and  sables.  Then  you  want  to  use  'em 
for  a  hall  rug." 

T.  A.  Buck  stepped  within  the  radius  of  the 
yellow  light,  so  that  its  glow  lighted  up  his  al- 
ready luminous  eyes  —  eyes  that  had  a  trick  of 
translucence  under  excitement. 

"  Sables  and  sealskin,"  repeated  T.  A.  Buck, 
his  voice  vibrant.  "  If  it's  those  you  want,  you 
can—" 

Snap!  went  the  electric  switch  under  Emma 
McChesney's  fingers.  It  was  as  decisive  as  a 
blow  in  the  face.  She  walked  to  the  door. 
The  little  room  was  dim. 

"  I'm  sending  my  boy  through  college  with 
[270] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

my  sealskin-and-sable  fund,"  she  said  crisply;. 
"  and  I'm  to  meet  him  at  4:30." 

"  Oh,  that's  your  appointment!"  Relief 
was  evident  in  T.  A.  Buck's  tone. 

Emma  McChesney  shook  a  despairing  head. 
"  For  impudent  and  unquenchable  inquisitive- 
ness  commend  me  to  a  man !  Here  !  If  you; 
must  know,  though  I  intended  it  as  a  surprise 
when  it  was  finished  and  furnished  —  I'm  go- 
ing to  rent  a  flat,  a  regular  six-room,  plenty-of- 
closets  flat,  after  ten  years  of  miserable  hotel 
existence.  Jock's  running  over  for  two  days  to 
approve  it.  I  ought  to  have  waited  until  the 
holidays,  so  he  wouldn't  miss  classes;  but  I 
couldn't  bear  to.  I've  spent  ten  Thanksgiv- 
ings, and  ten  Christmases,  and  ten  New  Years< 
in  hotels.  Hell  has  no  terrors  for  me." 

They  were  walking  down  the  corridor  to- 
gether. 

"Take  me  along  —  please!"  pleaded  T, 
A.  Buck,  like  a  boy.  "  I  know  all  about  flats, 
and  gas-stoves,  and  meters,  and  plumbing,  and 
everything!  " 

"You!"  scoffed  Emma  McChesney,  "with 
your  five-story  house  and  your  summer  home  in 
the  mountains!  " 

[271] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

"  Mother  won't  hear  of  giving  up  the  house. 
I  hate  it  myself.  Bathrooms  in  those  darned 
old  barracks  are  so  cold  that  a  hot  tub  is  an 
icy  plunge  before  you  get  to  it."  They  had 
reached  the  elevator.  A  stubborn  look  ap- 
peared about  T.  A.  Buck's  jaw.  "  I'm  go- 
ing! "  he  announced,  and  scudded  down  the 
hall  to  his  office  door.  Emma  McChesney 
pressed  the  elevator-button.  Before  the  as- 
cending car  showed  a  glow  of  light  in  the  shaft 
T.  A.  Buck  appeared  with  hat,  gloves,  stick. 

"  I  think  the  car's  downstairs.  We'll  run 
up  in  it,  What's  the  address?  Seventies,  I 
suppose?  " 

Emma  McChesney  stepped  out  of  the  ele- 
vator and  turned.  "  Car!  Not  I!  If  you're 
bound  to  come  with  me  you'll  take  the  subway. 
They're  asking  enough  for  that  apartment  as  it 
is.  I  don't  intend  to  drive  up  in  a  five-thou- 
sand-dollar motor  and  have  the  agent  tack  on 
an  extra  twenty  dollars  a  month." 

T.  A.  Buck  smiled  with  engaging  agreeable- 
ness.  "  Subway  it  is,"  he  said.  "  Your  pres- 
ence would  turn  even  a  Bronx  train  into  a  rose- 
garden." 

Twelve  minutes  later  the  new  apartment 
[272] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

building,  with  its  cream-tile  and  red-brick  Louis 
Somethingth  facade,  and  its  tan  brick  and 
plaster  Michael-Dougherty-contractor  back, 
loomed  before  them,  soaring  even  above  its 
lofty  neighbors  On  the  door-step  stood  a  ma- 
ple-colored giant  in  a  splendor  of  scarlet,  and 
gold  braid,  and  glittering  buttons.  The  great 
entrance  door  was  opened  for  them  by  a  half- 
portion  duplicate  of  the  giant  outside.  In  the 
foyer  was  splendor  to  grace  a  palace  hall. 
There  were  great  carved  chairs.  There  was  a 
massive  oaken  table.  There  were  rugs,  there 
were  hangings,  there  were  dim-shaded  lamps 
casting  a  soft  glow  upon  tapestry  and  velours. 

Awaiting  the  pleasure  of  the  agent,  T.  A. 
Buck,  leaning  upon  his  stick,  looked  about  him 
appreciatively.  "  Makes  the  Knickerbocker 
lobby  look  like  the  waiting-room  in  an  orphan 
asylum." 

"  Don't  let  'em  fool  you,"  answered  Emma 
McChesney,  sotto  voce,  just  before  the  agent 
popped  out  of  his  office.  "  It's  all  included  in 
the  rent.  Dinky  enough  up-stairs.  If  ever  I 
have  guests  that  I  want  to  impress  I'll  entertain 
'em  in  the  hall." 

There  approached  them  the  agent,  smiling, 
[273] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

urbane,  pleasing  as  to  manner  —  but  not  too 
pleasing;  urbanity  mixed,  so  to  speak,  with  the 
leaven  of  caution. 

"  Ah,  yes !  Mrs. —  er  —  McChesney,  wasn't 
it?  I  can't  tell  you  how  many  parties  have 
been  teasing  me  for  that  apartment  since  you 
looked  at  it.  I've  had  to  —  well  —  make  my- 
self positively  unpleasant  in  order  to  hold  it  for 
you.  You  said  you  wished  your  son  to  — " 

The  glittering  little  jewel-box  of  an  elevator 
was  taking  them  higher  and  higher.  The  agent 
stared  hard  at  T.  A.  Buck. 

Mrs.  McChesney  followed  his  gaze.  "  My 
business  associate,  Mr.  T.  A.  Buck,"  she  said 
grimly. 

The  agent  discarded  caution;  he  was  all 
urbanity.  Their  floor  attained,  he  unlocked  the 
apartment  door  and  threw  it  open  with  a  gesture 
which  was  a  miraculous  mixture  of  royalty  and 
generosity. 

"  He  knows  you!"  hissed  Emma  McChes- 
ney, entering  with  T.  A.  "  Another  ten  on  the 
rent."  The  agent  pulled  up  a  shade,  switched 
on  a  light,  straightened  an  electric  globe.  T. 
A.  Buck  looked  about  at  the  bare  white  walls,  at 
the  bare  polished  floor,  at  the  severe  fireplace. 
[274] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

"  I  knew  it  couldn't  last,"  he  said. 

"  If  it  did,"  replied  Emma  McChesney 
good-naturedly,  "  I  couldn't  afford  to  live  here," 
and  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  followed  by 
the  agent,  who  babbled  ever  and  anon  of  views, 
of  Hudsons,  of  express-trains,  of  parks,  as  is 
the  way  of  agents  from  Fiftieth  Street  to  One 
Hundred  and  'Umpty-ninth. 

T.  A.  Buck,  feet  spread  wide,  hands  behind 
him,  was  left  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
empty  living-room.  He  was  leaning  on  his  stick 
and  gazing  fixedly  upward  at  the  ornate  chan- 
delier. It  was  a  handsome  fixture,  and  boasted 
some  of  the  most  advanced  ideas  in  modern 
lighting  equipment.  Yet  it  scarcely  seemed  to 
warrant  the  passionate  scrutiny  which  T.  A. 
Buck  was  bestowing  upon  it.  So  rapt  was  his 
gaze  that  when  the  telephone-bell  shrilled  unex- 
pectedly in  the  hallway  he  started  so  that  his 
stick  slipped  on  the  polished  floor,  and  as  Emma 
McChesney  and  the  still  voluble  agent  emerged 
from  the  kitchen  the  dignified  head  of  the  firm 
of  T.  A.  Buck  and  Company  presented  an  ani- 
mated picture,  one  leg  in  the  air,  arms  waving 
wildly,  expression  at  once  amazed  and  hurt. 

Emma  McChesney  surveyed  him  wide-eyed. 

[275]  ' 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

The  agent,  unruffled,  continued  to  talk  on  his 
way  to  the  telephone. 

"  It  only  looks  small  to  you,"  he  was  saying. 
"  Fact  is,  most  people  think  it's  too  large. 
They  object  to  a  big  kitchen.  Too  much  work.'* 
He  gave  his  attention  to  the  telephone. 

Emma  McChesney  looked  troubled.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway,  head  on  one  side,  as  one 
who  conjures  up  a  mental  picture. 

"  Come  here,"  she  commanded  suddenly,  ad- 
dressing the  startled  T.  A.  "  You  nagged  un- 
til I  had  to  take  you  along.  Here's  a  chance  to 
justify  your  coming.  I  want  your  opinion  on 
the  kitchen." 

"  Kitchens,"  announced  T.  A.  Buck  of  the 
English  clothes  and  the  gardenia,  "  are  my 
specialty,"  and  entered  the  domain  of  the  gas- 
range  and  the  sink. 

Emma  McChesney  swept  the  infinitesimal 
room  with  a  large  gesture. 

"  Considering  it  as  a  kitchen,  not  as  a  locker, 
does  it  strike  you  as  being  adequate?  " 

T.  A.  Buck,  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  touched  all  four  walls  with  his  stick. 

"  I've  heard,"  he  ventured,  "  that  they're  — 
ah  —  using  'em  small  this  year." 

[276] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

Emma  McChesney's  eyes  took  on  a  certain 
wistful  expression.  "  Maybe.  But  whenever 
I've  dreamed  of  a  home,  which  was  whenever  I 
got  lonesome  on  the  road,  which  was  every 
evening  for  ten  years,  I'd  start  to  plan  a  kitchen. 
A  kitchen  where  you  could  put  up  preserves, 
and  a  keg  of  dill  pickles,  and  get  a  full-sized 
dinner  without  getting  things  more  than  just 
comfortably  cluttered." 

T.  A.  Buck  reflected.  He  flapped  his  arms 
as  one  who  feels  pressed  for  room.  >c  With 
two  people  occupying  the  room,  as  at  present, 
the  presence  of  one  dill  pickle  would  sort  of 
crowd  things,  not  to  speak  of  a  keg  of  'em,  and 
the  full-sized  dinner,  and  the  —  er  —  preserves. 
Still—" 

"  As  for  a  turkey,"  wailed  Emma  McChes- 
ney,  "  one  would  have  to  go  out  on  the  fire-es- 
cape to  baste  it." 

The  swinging  door  opened  to  admit  the 
agent.  "Would  you  excuse  me?  A  party 
down-stairs  —  lease  —  be  back  in  no  time. 
Just  look  about  —  any  questions  —  glad  to  an- 
swer later  — " 

"Quite  all  right, ".Mrs.  McChesney  assured 
him.  Her  expression  was  one  of  relief  as  the 

[277] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

hall  door  closed  behind  him.  "  Good!  There's 
a  spot  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel.  I've 
been  dying  to  find  out  if  it  was  a  flaw  in  the 
glass  or  only  a  smudge." 

She  made  for  the  living-room.  T.  A. 
Buck  followed  thoughtfully.  Thoughtfully 
and  interestedly  he  watched  her  as  she  stood  on 
tiptoe,  breathed  stormily  upon  the  mirror's  sur- 
face, and  rubbed  the  moist  place  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. She  stood  back  a  pace,  eyes  narrowed 
critically. 

"  It's  gone,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked. 

T.  A.  Buck  advanced  to  where  she  stood  and 
cocked  his  head  too,  judicially,  and  in  the  op- 
posite direction  to  which  Emma  McChesney's 
head  was  cocked.  So  that  the  two  heads  were 
very  close  together. 

"  It's  a  poor  piece  of  glass,"  he  announced  at 
last. 

A  simple  enough  remark.  Perhaps  it  was 
made  with  an  object  in  view,  but  certainly  it  was 
not  meant  to  bring  forth  the  storm  of  protest 
that  came  from  Emma  McChesney's  lips.  She 
turned  on  him,  lips  quivering,  eyes  wrathful. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  come !  "  she  cried. 
"  You're  as  much  out  of  place  in  a  six-room  flat 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

as  a  truffle  would  be  in  a  boiled  New  England 
dinner.  Do  you  think  I  don't  see  its  short- 
comings? Every  normal  woman,  no  matter 
what  sort  of  bungalow,  palace,  ranch-house, 
cave,  cottage,  or  tenement  she  may  be  living  in, 
has  in  her  mind's  eye  a  picture  of  the  sort  of 
apartment  she'd  live  in  if  she  could  afford  it. 
I've  had  mine  mapped  out  from  the  wall-paper 
in  the  front  hall  to  the  laundry-tubs  in  the  base- 
ment, and  it  doesn't  even  bear  a  family  resem- 
blance to  this." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  stammered  T.  A.  Buck.  "  You 
asked  my  opinion  and  I  — " 

"  Opinion !  If  every  one  had  so  little  tact  as 
to  give  their  true  opinion  when  it  was  asked  this 
would  be  a  miserable  world.  I  asked  you  be- 
cause I  wanted  you  to  lie.  I  expected  it  of  you. 
I  needed  bolstering  up.  I  realize  that  the  rent 
I'm  paying  and  the  flat  I'm  getting  form  a  geo- 
metrical problem  where  X  equals  the  unknown 
quantity  and  only  the  agent  knows  the  answer. 
But  it's  going  to  be  a  home  for  Jock  and  me. 
It's  going  to  be  a  place  where  he  can  bring  his 
friends;  where  he  can  have  his  books,  and  his 
'baccy,  and  his  college  junk.  It  will  be  the  first 
real  home  that  youngster  has  known  in  all  his 
[279] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

miserable  boarding-house,  hotel,  boys'  school, 
and  college  existence.  Sometimes  when  I  think 
of  what  he's  missed,  of  the  loneliness  and  the 
neglect  when  I  was  on  the  road,  of  the  barren- 
ness of  his  boyhood,  I  — " 

T.  A.  Buck  started  forward  as  one  who  had 
made  up  his  mind  about  something  long  con- 
sidered. Then  he  gulped,  retreated,  paced  ex- 
citedly to  the  door  and  back  again.  On  the  re- 
turn trip  he  found  smiling  and  repentant 
Emma  McChesney  regarding  him. 

"  Now  aren't  you  sorry  you  insisted  on  com- 
ing along?  Letting  yourself  in  for  a  ragging 
like  that?  I  think  I'm  a  wee  bit  taut  in  the 
nerves  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Jock — and 
planning  things  with  him  —  I  — " 

T.  A.  Buck  paused  in  his  pacing.  "  Don't!  " 
he  said.  "  I  had  it  coming  to  me.  I  did  it  de- 
liberately. I  wanted  to  know  how  you  really 
felt  about  it." 

Emma  McChesney  stared  at  him  curiously. 
"  Well,  now  you  know.  But  I  haven't  told  you 
half.  In  all  those  years  while  I  was  selling  T. 
A.  Buck's  Featherloom  Petticoats  on  the  road, 
and  eating  hotel  food  that  tasted  the  same, 
whether  it  was  roast  beef  or  ice-cream,  I  was 
[280] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

planning  this  little  place.  I've  even  made  up 
my  mind  to  the  scandalous  price  I'm  willing  to 
pay  a  maid  who'll  cook  real  dinners  for  us  and 
serve  them  as  I've  always  vowed  Jock's  dinners, 
should  be  served  when  I  could  afford  something 
more  than  a  shifting  hotel  home." 

T.  A.  Buck  was  regarding  the  head  of  his 
walking-stick  with  a  gaze  as  intent  as  that  which 
he  previously  had  bestowed  upon  the  chandelier. 
For  that  matter  it  was  a  handsome  enough  stick 
—  a  choice  thing  in  malacca.  But  it  was 
scarcely  more  deserving  than  the  chandelier  had 
been. 

Mrs.  McChesney  had  wandered  into  the  din- 
ing-room. She  peered  out  of  windows.  She 
poked  into  butler's  pantry.  She  inspected  wall- 
lights.  And  still  T.  A.  Buck  stared  at  his  stick. 

"  It's  really  robbery,"  came  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  voice  from  the  next  room.  "  Only  a  New 
York  agent  could  have  the  nerve  to  do  it.  I've 
a  friend  who  lives  in  Chicago  —  Mary  Cutting. 
You've  heard  me  speak  of  her.  Has  a  flat  on 
the  north  side  there,  just  next  door  to  the  lake. 
The  rent  is  ridiculous;  and  —  would  you  be- 
lieve it?  —  the  flat  is  equipped  with  bookcases, 
and  gorgeous  mantel  shelves,  and  buffet,  and 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

bathroom  fixtures,   and  china-closets,   and  hall- 
tree—" 

Her  voice  trailed  into  nothingness  as  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  kitchen.  When  she  emerged 
again  she  was  still  enumerating  the  charms  of 
the  absurdly  low-priced  Chicago  flat,  thus: 

"  —  and  full-length  mirrors,  and  wonderful 
folding  table-shelf  gimcracks  in  the  kitchen, 
and—" 

T.  A.  Buck  did  not  look  up.  But,  "  Oh, 
Chicago!  "  he  might  have  been  heard  to  mur- 
mur, as  only  a  New-Yorker  can  breathe  those 
two  words. 

K  Don't  'Oh,  Chicago!'  like  that,"  mim- 
icked Emma  McChesney.  "  I've  lain  awake 
nights  dreaming  of  a  home  I  once  saw  there, 
with  the  lake  in  the  back  yard,  and  a  couple  of 
miles  of  veranda,  and  a  darling  vegetable-gar- 
den, and  the  whole  place  simply  honeycombed 
with  bathrooms,  and  sleeping-porches,  and  sun- 
parlors,  and  linen-closets,  and  —  gracious,  I 
wonder  what's  keeping  Jock !  " 

T.  A.  Buck  wrenched  his  eyes  from  his  stick. 
All  previous  remarks  descriptive  of  his  eyes 
under  excitement  paled  at  the  glow  which 
lighted  them  now.  They  glowed  straight  into 

[282] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

Emma  McChesney's  eyes  and  held  them, 
startled. 

"  Emma,"  said  T.  A.  Buck  quite  calmly, 
"  will  you  marry  me?  I  want  to  give  you  all 
those  things,  beginning  with  the  lake  in  the  back 
yard  and  ending  with  the  linen-closets  and  the 
sun-parlor." 

And  Emma  McChesney,  standing  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  dining-room  floor,  stared  long  at 
T.  A.  Buck,  standing  there  in  the  center  of  the 
living-room  floor.  And  if  any  human  face,  in 
the  space  of  seventeen  seconds,  could  be  capable 
of  expressing  relief,  and  regret,  and  alarm, 
and  dismay,  and  tenderness,  and  wonder,  and  a 
great  womanly  sympathy,  Emma  McChesney's 
countenance  might  be  said  to  have  expressed 
all  those  emotions  —  and  more.  The  last  two 
were  uppermost  as  she  slowly  came  toward 
him. 

"  T.  A.,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  in  it  a 
marvelous  quality,  "  I'm  thirty-nine  years  old. 
You  know  I  was  married  when  I  was  eighteen 
and  got  my  divorce  after  eight  years.  Those 
eight  years  would  have  left  any  woman  who  had 
endured  them  with  one  of  two  determinations: 
to  take  up  life  again  and  bring  it  out  into  the 
[283] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

sunshine  until  it  was  sound,  and  sweet,  and 
clean,  and  whole  once  more,  or  to  hide  the  hurt 
and  hrood  over  it,  and  cover  it  with  bitterness, 
and  hate  until  it  destroyed  by  its  very  foulness. 
I  had  Jock,  and  I  chose  the  sun,  thank  God !  I 
said  then  that  marriage  was  a  thing  tried  and 
abandoned  forever,  for  me.  And  now  — " 

There  was  something  almost  fine  in  the  lines 
of  T.  A.  Buck's  too  feminine  mouth  and  chin; 
but  not  fine  enough. 

"  Now,  Emma,"  he  repeated,  "  will  you 
marry  me?  " 

Emma  McChesney's  eyes  were  a  wonderful 
thing  to  see,  so  full  of  pain  were  they,  so  wide 
with  unshed  tears. 

"  As  long  as  —  he  —  lived,"  she  went  on, 
"  the  thought  of  marriage  was  repulsive  to  me. 
Then,  that  day  seven  months  ago  out  in  Iowa, 
when  I  picked  up  that  paper  and  saw  it  staring 
out  at  me  in  print  that  seemed  to  waver  and 
dance  " —  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand 
for  a  moment  — "  *  McChesney  —  Stuart  Mc- 
Chesney,  March  7,  aged  forty-seven  years. 
Funeral  to-day  from  Howland  Brothers'  chapel. 
Aberdeen  and  Edinburgh  papers  please 


copy!' 


[284] 


'Emma/  he  said,  'will  you  marry  me?"" — Page  28? 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

T.  A.  Buck  took  the  hand  that  covered  her 
eyes  and  brought  it  gently  down. 

"  Emma,"  he  said,  "  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  T.  A.,  I  don't  love  you.  Wait !  Don't  say 
it!  I'm  thirty-nine,  but  I'm  brave  and  fool- 
ish enough  to  say  that  all  these  years  of  work, 
and  disappointment,  and  struggle,  and  bitter  ex- 
perience haven't  convinced  me  that  love  does  not 
exist.  People  have  said  about  me,  seeing  me  in 
business,  that  I'm  not  a  marrying  woman. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  that.  Every  woman 
is  a  marrying  woman,  and  sometimes  the  light- 
heartedest,  and  the  scoffingest,  and  the  most 
self-sufficient  of  us  are,  beneath  it  all,  the  mar- 
ryingest.  Perhaps  I'm  making  a  mistake. 
Perhaps  ten  years  from  now  I'll  be  ready  to  call 
myself  a  fool  for  having  let  slip  what  the  wise 
ones  would  call  a  '  chance.'  But  I  don't  think 
so,  T.  A." 

*  You  know  me  too  well,"  argued  T.  A.  Buck 
rather  miserably.  "  But  at  least  you  know  the 
worst  of  me  as  well  as  the  best.  You'd  be  tak- 
ing no  risks." 

Emma  McChesney  walked  to  the  window. 
There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  she  finished  it 
with  one  clean  stroke.  "  We've  been  good 

[287] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

"business  chums,  you  and  I.  I  hope  we  always 
shall  be.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  beautiful 
on  this  earth  for  a  woman  than  being  married  to 
a  man  she  cares  for  and  who  cares  for  her. 
But,  T.  A.,  you're  not  the  man." 

And  then  there  were  quick  steps  in  the  cor- 
ridor, a  hand  at  the  door-knob,  a  slim,  tall  fig- 
ure in  the  doorway.  Emma  McChesney  seemed 
to  waft  across  the  rooms  and  into  the  embrace 
of  the  slim,  tall  figure. 

"Welcome  —  home!  "  she  cried.  "Sketch 
in  the  furniture  to  suit  yourself." 

"  This  is  going  to  be  great  —  great !  "  an- 
nounced Jock.  u  What  do  you  know  about  the 
Oriental  potentate  down-stairs!  I  guess  Otis 
Skinner  has  nothing  on  him  when  it  comes  — 
Why,  hello,  Mr.  Buck!  "  He  was  peering  into 
the  next  room.  "  Why  don't  you  folks  light 
up?  I  thought  you  were  another  agent  per- 
son. Met  that  one  down  in  the  hall.  Said 
he'd  be  right  up.  What's  the  matter  with  him 
anyway?  He  smiles  like  a  waxworks.  When 
the  elevator  took  me  up  he  was  still  smiling 
from  the  foyer,  and  I  could  see  his  grin  after 
the  rest  of  him  was  lost  to  sight.  Regular 
Cheshire.  What's  this?  Droring-room? " 


'"Welcome  home!'  she  cried.     'Sketch  in  the  furniture  to  suit 
yourself'"— Page   288 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

He  rattled  on  like  a  pleased  boy.  He  strode 
over  to  shake  hands  with  Buck.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney,  cheeks  glowing,  eyed  him  adoringly. 
Then  she  gave  a  little  suppressed  cry. 

"  Jock,  what's  happened?  " 

Jock  whirled  around  like  a  cat.  "Where? 
When?  What?" 

Emma  McChesney  pointed  at  him  with  one 
shaking  finger.  "  You !  You're  thin  !  You're 
—  you're  emaciated.  Your  shoulders,  where 
are  they?  Your  —  your  legs — " 

Jock  looked  down  at  himself.  His  glance 
was  pride.  "  Clothes,"  he  said. 

"  Clothes?  "  faltered  his  mother. 

'  You're  losing  your  punch,  Mother?  You 
used  to  be  up  on  men's  rigging.  All  the  boys 
look  like  their  own  shadows  these  days.  Eng- 
lish cut.  No  padding.  No  heels.  Incurve 
at  the  waist.  Watch  me  walk."  He  flapped 
across  the  room,  chest  concave,  shoulders 
rounded,  arms  hanging  limp,  feet  wide  apart, 
chin  thrust  forward. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that's  your  present 
form  of  locomotion?  "  demanded  his  mother. 

"  I  hope  so.  Been  practising  it  for  weeks. 
They  call  it  the  juvenile  jump,  and  all  our  best 

[289] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

leading  men  have  it.  I  trailed  Douglas  Fair- 
banks for  days  before  I  really  got  it." 

And  the  tension  between  T.  A.  Buck  and 
Emma  McChesney  snapped  with  a  jerk,  and 
they  both  laughed,  and  laughed  again,  at  Jock's 
air  of  offended  dignity.  They  laughed  until 
the  rancor  in  the  heart  of  the  man  and  the  hurt 
and  pity  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  melted  into 
a  bond  of  lasting  understanding. 

"  Go  on  —  laugh  !  "  said  Jock.  "  Say, 
Mother,  is  there  a  shower  in  the  bathroom, 
h'm?  "  And  was  off  to  investigate. 

The  laughter  trailed  away  into  nothingness- 
*  Jock,"  called  his  mother,  "  do  you  want  your 
bedroom  done  in  plain  or  stripes?  " 

"  Plain,"  came  from  the  regions  beyond. 
"  Got  a  lot  of  pennants  and  everything." 

T.  A.  Buck  picked  up  his  stick  from  the  cor- 
ner in  which  it  stood. 

"  I'll  run  along,"  he  said.  "  You  two  will 
want  to  talk  things  over  together."  He  raised 
his  voice  to  reach  the  boy  in  the  other  room. 
"  I'm  off,  Jock." 

Jock's  protest  sounded  down  the  hall. 
"  Don't  leave  me  alone  with  her.  She'll 
[290] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

blarney  me  into  consenting  to  blue-and-pink 
rosebud  paper  in  my  bedroom." 

T.  A.  Buck  had  the  courage  to  smile  even  at 
that.  Emma  McChesney  was  watching  him, 
her  clear  eyes  troubled,  anxious. 

At  the  door  Buck  turned,  came  back  a  step  or 
two.  "I  —  I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
play  hooky  this  time  and  run  over  to  Atlantic 
City  for  a  couple  of  days.  You'll  find  things 
slowing  up,  now  that  the  holidays  are  so  near." 

"  Fine  idea  —  fine !  "  agreed  Emma  McChes- 
ney; but  her  eyes  still  wore  the  troubled  look. 

"  Good-by,"  said  T.  A.  Buck  abruptly. 

"Good—"  and  then  she  stopped.  "I've 
a  brand-new  idea.  Give  you  something  to 
worry  about  on  your  vacation." 

"  I'm  supplied,"  answered  T.  A.  Buck 
grimly. 

"  Nonsense !  A  real  worry.  A  business 
worry.  A  surprise." 

Jock  had  joined  them,  and  was  towering  over 
his  mother,  her  handJn  his. 

T.  A.  Buck  regarded  them  moodily.  "  After 
your  pajama  and  knickerbocker  stunt  I'm 
braced  for  anything." 

[291] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

"  Nothing  theatrical  this  time,"  she  assured 
him.  "  Don't  expect  a  show  such  as  you  got 
when  I  touched  off  the  last  fuse." 

An  eager,  expectant  look  was  replacing  the 
gloom  that  had  clouded  his  face.  "  Spring  it." 

Emma  McChesney  waited  a  moment;  then, 
"  I  think  the  time  has  come  to  put  in  another 
line  —  a  staple.  It's  —  flannel  nightgowns." 

"  Flannel  nightgowns !  "  Disgust  shivered 
through  Buck's  voice.  "Flannel  nightgowns! 
They  quit  wearing  those  when  Broadway  was  a 
cow-path." 

"Did,  eh?"  retorted  Emma  McChesney. 
"  That's  the  New-Yorker  speaking.  Just  be- 
cause the  French  near-actresses  at  the  Winter 
Garden  wear  silk  lace  and  sea-foam  nighties  in 
their  imported  boudoir  skits,  and  just  because 
they  display  only  those  frilly,  beribboned  hand- 
made affairs  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  shop-windows, 
don't  you  ever  think  that  they're  a  national  vice. 
Let  me  tell  you,"  she  went  on  as  T.  A.  Buck's 
demeanor  grew  more  bristlingly  antagonistic, 
"  there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  women 
up  in  Minnesota,  and  Wisconsin,  and  Michigan, 
and  Oregon,  and  Alaska,  and  Nebraska,  and 
Dakota  who  are  thankful  to  retire  every  night 
[292] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

protected  by  one  long,  thick,  serviceable  flannel 
nightie,  and  one  practical  hot-water  bag.  Up 
in  those  countries  retiring  isn't  a  social  rite: 
it's  a  feat  of  hardihood.  I'm  keen  for  a  line  of 
plain,  full,  roomy  old-fashioned  flannel  night- 
gowns of  the  improved  T.  A.  Buck  Feather- 
loom  products  variety.  They'll  be  wearing  'em 
long  after  knickerbockers  have  been  cut  up  for 
patchwork." 

The  moody  look  was  quite  absent  from  T.  A. 
Buck's  face  now,  and  the  troubled  look  from 
Emma  McChesney's  eyes. 

;<  Well,"  Buck  said  grudgingly,  "  if  you  were 
to  advise  making  up  a  line  of  the  latest  models 
in  deep-sea  divers'  uniforms,  I  suppose  I'd 
give  in.  But  flannel  nightgowns!  In  the 
twentieth  century  —  flannel  night — " 

"  Think  it  over,"  laughed  Emma  McChes- 
ney  as  he  opened  the  door.  "  We'll  have  it  out, 
tooth  and  nail,  when  you  get  back." 

The  door  closed  upon  him.  Emma  McChes- 
ney  and  her  son  were  left  alone  in  their  new 
home  to  be. 

"  Turn  out  the  light,  son,"  said  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney,  "  and  come  to  the  window.     There's 
a  view !     Worth  the  money,  alone." 
[293] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

Jock  switched  off  the  light.  "  D'  you  know, 
Blonde,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  old  T.  A.'s 
sweetish  on  you,"  he  said  as  he  came  over  to 
the  window. 

"Old!" 

"  He's  forty  or  over,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Son,  do  you  realize  your  charming  mother's 
thirty-nine?  " 

"Oh,  you!  That's  different.  You  look  a  kid. 
You're  young  in  all  the  spots  where  other 
women  of  thirty-nine  look  old.  Around  the 
eyes,  and  under  the  chin,  and  your  hands,  and 
the  corners  of  your  mouth." 

In  the  twilight  Emma  McChesney  turned  to 
stare  at  her  son.  "  Just  where  did  you  learn 
all  that,  young  'un?  At  college?  " 

And,  "  Some  view,  isn't  it,  Mother?  "  parried 
Jock.  The  two  stood  there,  side  by  side,  look- 
ing out  across  the  great  city  that  glittered  and 
swam  in  the  soft  haze  of  the  late  November 
afternoon.  There  are  lovelier  sights  than  New 
York  seen  at  night,  from  a  window  eyrie  with  a 
mauve  haze  softening  all,  as  a  beautiful  but  ex- 
perienced woman  is  softened  by  an  artfully 
draped  scarf  of  chiffon.  There  are  cities  of 
roses,  cities  of  mountains,  cities  of  palm-trees 
[294] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

and  sparkling  lakes;  but  no  sight,  be  it  of 
mountains,  or  roses,  or  lakes,  or  waving  palm- 
trees,  is  more  likely  to  cause  that  vague  some- 
thing which  catches  you  in  the  throat. 

It  caught  those  two  home-hungry  people. 
And  it  opened  the  lips  of  one  of  them  almost 
against  his  will. 

"  Mother,"  said  Jock  haltingly,  painfully,  "  I 
came  mighty  near  coming  home  —  for  good  — 
this  time." 

His  mother  turned  and  searched  his  face  in 
the  dim  light. 

>l  What  was  it,  Jock?  "  she  asked,  quite  with- 
out fuss. 

The  slim  young  figure  in  the  jumping  juvenile 
clothes  stirred  and  tried  to  speak,  tried  again* 
formed  the  two  words :  "  A  —  girl.'* 

Emma  McChesney  waited  a  second,  until  the 
icy,  cruel,  relentless  hand  that  clutched  her  very 
heart  should  have  relaxed  ever  so  little.  Then, 
4<  Tell  me,  sonny  boy,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  Mother  —  that  girl  — "  There  was 
an  agony  of  bitterness  and  of  disillusioned 
youth  in  his  voice. 

Emma  McChesney  came  very  close,  so  that 
her  head,  in  the  pert  little  close-fitting  hat, 
[295] 


IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE  AGENT 

rested  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  She  linked  her 
arm  through  his,  snug  and  warm. 

"That  girl — "  she  echoed  encouragingly. 

And,  "  That  girl,"  went  on  Jock,  taking  up 
the  thread  of  his  grief,  "  why,  Mother,  that  — 
girl—" 


THE  END 


[296] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


APR  12 '89 


APR  131989REC'D 


50m-6,'67  (H2523s8 )  2373 


STORED  AT  NRLF 


3  2106  00210  6612 


